The Wheel O Fortune | Page 2

reached the less crowded Buckingham Palace Road. His face was
darkened by a frown, though his blue eyes had a glint of humor in them.
The legend on the banner had annoyed him. Its blatant message had
penetrated the armor of youth, high spirits, and abounding good health.
It expressed his own case, with a crude vigor. The "unemployed"
genius who railed at society in that virile line must have felt as he, Dick
Royson, had begun to feel during the past fortnight, and the knowledge
that this was so was exceedingly distasteful. It was monstrous that he
should rate himself on a par with those slouching wastrels. The mere
notion brought its own confutation. Twenty-four years of age, well
educated, a gentleman by birth and breeding, an athlete who stood six
feet two inches high in his stockings, the gulf was wide, indeed,
between him and the charity-cursers who had taken his money. Yet--the
words stuck....
Evidently, he was fated to be a sight-seer that morning. When he
entered Buckingham Palace Road, the strains of martial music banished
the gaunt specter called into being by the red cotton banner. A
policeman, more cheerful and spry than his comrades who marshaled
the procession shuffling towards Westminster, strode to the center of
the busy crossing, and cast an alert eye on the converging lines of
traffic. Another section of the ever-ready London crowd lined up on the
curb. Nursemaids, bound for the parks, wheeled their perambulators
into strategic positions, thus commanding a clear view and blocking the
edge of the pavement. Drivers of omnibuses, without waiting for the
lifted hand of authority, halted in Lower Grosvenor Gardens and
Victoria Street. Cabs going to the station, presumably carrying fares to
whom time meant lost trains, spurted to cross a road which would soon
be barred. And small boys gathered from all quarters in amazing
profusion. In a word, the Coldstream Guards were coming from
Chelsea Barracks to do duty at St. James's, coming, too, in the
approved manner of the Guards, with lively drumming and clash of
cymbals, while brass and reeds sang some jaunty melody of the hour.

The passing of a regimental band has whisked many a youngster out of
staid Britain into the far lands, the lilt and swing of soldiers on the
march have a glamour all the more profound because it is evanescent.
That man must indeed be careworn who would resist it. Certainly, the
broad-shouldered young giant who had been momentarily troubled by
the white-red ghost of poverty was not so minded. He could see easily,
over the heads of the people standing on the edge of the pavement, so
he did not press to the front among the rabble, but stood apart, with his
back against a shop window. Thus, he was free to move to right or left
as he chose. That was a slight thing in itself, an unconscious trick of
aloofness--perhaps an inherited trait of occupying his own territory, so
to speak. But it is these slight things which reveal character. They
oft-times influence human lives, too; and no man ever extricated
himself more promptly from the humdrum of moneyless existence in
London than did Richard Royson that day by placing the width of the
sidewalk between himself and the unbroken row of spectators. Of
course, he knew nothing of that at the moment. His objective was an
appointment at eleven' o'clock in the neighborhood of Charing Cross,
and, now that he was given the excuse, he meant to march along the
Mall behind the Guards. Meanwhile, he watched their advance.
Above the tall bearskins and glittering bayonets he caught the flourish
of energetic drumsticks. The big drum gave forth its clamor with
window-shaking insistence; it seemed to be the summons of power that
all else should stand aside. On they came, these spruce Guards, each
man a marching machine, trained to strut and pose exactly as his
fellows. There was a sense of omnipotence in their rhythmic movement.
And they all had the grand manner--from the elegant captain in
command down to the smallest drummer-boy. Although the sun was
shining brightly now, the earlier rain and hint of winter in the air had
clothed all ranks in dark gray great-coats and brown leggings. Hence, to
the untrained glance, they were singularly alike. Officers, sergeants,
privates and bandsmen might have been cast in molds, after the style of
toy soldiers. There were exceptions, of course, just as the fat man
achieved distinction among the unemployed. The crimson sashes of the
officers, the drum-major, with his twirling staff, the white apron of the
big drummer, drew the eye. A slim subaltern, carrying the regimental

color, held pride of place in the picture. The rich hues of the silk lent a
barbaric splendor to his sober