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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
124
The
next
'bus
took
me
to
Richmond.
Two
young
girls
sat
in
front,
and
kept
looking
back
to
know
if
I
was
"game."
I
looked
through
them.
Walked
in
the
Park
just
conscious
of
the
singing
of
Larks
and
the
chatter
of
Jays,
but
harassed
mentally
by
the
question,
"To
whom
shall
I
send
my
essay,
when
finished?"
To
shelter
from
the
rain
sat
under
an
oak
where
four
youths
joined
me
and
said,
"Worse
luck,"
and
"Not
half,"
and
smoked
cigarettes.
They
gossipped
and
giggled
like
girls,
put
their
arms
around
each
other's
necks.
At
the
dinner
last
night,
they
said,
they
had
Duck
and
Tomato
Soup
and
Beeswax
("Beesley,
you
know,
the
chap
that
goes
about
with
Smith
a
lot")
wore
a
fancy
waistcoat
with
a
dinner
jacket.
When
I
got
up
to
move
on,
they
became
convulsed
with
laughter.
I
scowled.
Had
tea
in
the
Pagoda
tea-rooms,
dry
toast
and
brown
bread
and
butter.
Two
young
men
opposite
me
were
quietly
playing
the
fool.
"Hold
my
hand,"
one
said
audibly
enough
for
two
lovers
to
hear,
comfortably
settled
up
in
a
corner.
Even
at
a
side
view
I
could
see
them
kissing
each
other
in
between
mouthfuls
of
bread
and
butter
and
jam.
On
rising
to
go,
one
of
the
two
hilarious
youths
removed
my
cap
and
playfully
placed
it
on
top
of
the
bowler
which
his
friend
was
wearing.
"My
cap,
I
think,"
I
said
sharply,
and
the
young
man
apologised
with
a
splutter.
I
glared
like
a
kill-joy
of
sixty.
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