They Who Get Slapped
August 1 1945
BEVERLEY BAXTER'S London Letter
They Who Get Slapped
THREE DAYS ago I journeyed from London to Oldham, in Lancashire. It was pleasant to find a vacant seat in a first-class compartment, and I took a quick survey of my fellow voyagers for the five-hour trip. In one corner was a streamlined American girl, in uniform, with a long nose, long fingers and long legs. In another corner was a subaltern on his way to an embarkation centre for India. In yet another corner was an oldish man who never spoke or moved during the entire trip and whom I could not have identified an hour after we had dispersed.