"All sorts, sir, I gets here," said the coffee-stall man as he sloshed about among the dirty plates. "You remember that cat burglar, him what broke into Grosvenor Gardens the other night? I've had him 'ere. 'Safact! Talkin' to a reel lord, he was, too! Yes; I get a lord now and again, but they ain't no different from ordinary people. They eats their sausages like everybody else and leaves the gristle like everybody else and only puts tuppence under the saucer. Why, you might be a lord for all I know----" He paused, then in case I might get proud and haughty he added: "Or a cat burglar.... Well, as I was sayin', up comes this 'ere cat burglar, smart as you like, puts a little black bag where your leanin' now--full of jools it was, but I didn't know--and he asks for a cup of coffee and a barth bun. He chips into the conversation and talks to 'is lordship quite the gentleman. 'Nice chap that,' says 'is nibs after he'd gone. 'What is he?' 'I dunno.' I tell him; and at that moment up run a couple of coppers, all hot and bothered. ''Ave you seen a dark young man wearin' a blue double-breasted suit, height five foot ten and a narf and of a pale complexion?' 'Thousands,' I says, going on wiping up; I could see something was up and I wasn't splitting. Then they told me about 'im, and I told them about 'im, and off they ran like a couple of ferrets. Catch him? Not likely.... Good morning, sir!" Suddenly into the circle of light stepped a man carrying a cat that had been born white. A thin, melancholy cat and a thin, melancholy man, middle-aged, rain-coated, and grim. He placed the thin cat on the oilcloth counter, and the man behind at once poured out a saucer of milk. The cat slunk to it guiltily. The man watched it as if he had never seen a cat before, and stroked its back. Then he buttoned it inside his raincoat and went away. "Collects cats, he does," said the coffee-stall man, as he banged about among his unwashed china. "Says they follow him. Most nights he comes along with a stray cat, buys it milk, takes it home and looks after it. Regular walkin' cats' home, he is.... Good morning, sir..." Round the bend of the road swung the first gold tramcar of a new day. Ghosts of the Fog Fog in London. Men are like flat figures cut in black paper. All things become two-dimensional. Carts, motorcars, omnibuses are shadows that nose their way painfully like blind beasts. The fog has a flavour. Many flavours. At Marble Arch I meet a delicate after-taste like melon; at Ludgate Hill I taste coke. Everywhere the fog grips the throat and sets the eyes watering. It puts out clammy fingers that touch the ears and give the hands a ghostly grip.