CHAPTER II
FORTUNE'S WILD WHEEL
People who remember the heat of the Derby Day in 1908, will remember also that the day which succeeded it was, if anything, still hotter. That Thursday the thermometer rose to 81 degrees in the shade; folk who sat out in the sun, as many and many a thousand did in the parks and public places of resort, felt as if they were being slowly roasted. There were Panama hats, light head-gear, and sunshades, cooling drinks, and ice-carts everywhere; men mopped perspiring foreheads, and hard-driven animals showed a desire to stop at every available water-trough. Overhead the sun blazed out of a leaden sky; the earth's surface burned beneath his ardent embraces. That section of London's overgrown population—no inconsiderable one—which is drawn from the south of Europe welcomed the heat, and dreamed dreams of Naples and Sicily as they lounged about the frowsy courts of Soho and the back streets of Hatton Garden; but there were not wanting those who were minded to grumble at the fierce sunlight, as being just as much a vagary of the English climate as the next winter hurricane. It was there to-day—where would it be to-morrow?
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