He still had faith, notwithstanding his
difficulties, and no symptoms of dejection. He was perfectly well aware
that this need for food was, after all, one of the most unimportant
affairs in the world, although he was forced sometimes to admit to
himself that he found it none the less surprisingly unpleasant. Chance,
however, handed over to him a shilling discovered upon the curb, and a
high-class evening paper left upon a seat in the Park. He had no sooner
eaten and drunk with the former than he opened the latter. There was an
article on the front page entitled "London Awake." He read it line by
line and laughed. It was all so ridiculously simple. He hurried back
to his rooms and wrote a much better one on "London Asleep." He was
master of his subject. He wrote of what he had seen with effortless and
sublime verity. Why not? Simply with the aid of pen and ink he
transferred from the cells of his memory into actual phrases the silent
panorama which he had seen with his own eyes. That one matchless hour
before the dawn was entirely his. Throughout its sixty minutes he had
watched and waited with every sense quivering. He had watched and heard
that first breath of dawn come stealing into life.
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