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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
255
I
told
him
this
in
the
middle
of
one
of
his
luxurious
silences.
"I
will
tell
you,"
he
said
deliberately,
"when
we
reach
the
Oratory."
(We
were
in
Brompton
Road.)
"Which
side
of
it?"
I
enquired
anxiously.
"This
or
that?"
"That,"
said
he,
"will
depend
on
how
you
behave
in
the
meantime."
April
3.
We
met
a
remarkable
Bulldog
to-day
in
the
street,
humbly
following
behind
a
tiny
boy
to
whom
it
was
attached
by
a
piece
of
string.
At
the
time
we
were
following
in
the
wake
of
three
magnificent
Serbian
Officers,
and
I
was
particularly
interesting
myself
in
the
curious
cut
of
their
top
boots.
But
the
Bulldog
was
the
Red
Herring
in
our
path.
"Is
that
a
Dog?"
I
asked
the
little
boy.
He
assured
me
that
it
was,
and
so
it
turned
out
to
be,
tho'
Bull-frog
would
have
been
a
better
name
for
it,
the
forelegs
being
more
bandied,
the
back
broader
and
the
mouth
wider
than
in
any
Bulldog
I
have
ever
seen.
It
was
a
super-Bulldog.
We
turned
and
walked
on.
"There,"
said
R----,
"now
we
have
lost
our
Serbian
Officers."
April
4.
"May
I
use
your
microscope?"
he
asked.
"By
all
means,"
I
said
with
a
gesture
of
elaborate
politeness.
He
sat
down
at
my
table,
in
my
chair,
and
used
my
instrument--becoming
at
once
absorbed
and
oblivious
to
my
banter
as
per
below:
"As
Scotchmen,"
I
said,
"are
monuments
rather
than
men,
this
latest
raid
on
Edinboro's
worthy
inhabitants
must
be
called
vandalism
rather
than
murder."
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