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CHAPTER XVI
THE AMERICAN BAR, CRITERION
(PICCADILLY CIRCUS)
IT was half-past seven, or it may have been even a little later, when I
encountered the recorder of racing romances wandering along the eastern
half-mile of Piccadilly, and both he and I had been too indolent to get into the
conventional sables. To him it was a matter of no moment. Many racing campaigns
had so “taken the corners off” him that, like that excellent warrior, but
distinctly casual diner, Frederick the Great, he could sit himself down in any
garb and return grateful thanks to Heaven for enough salt beef and cabbage for a
meal—which may go to prove either that Frederick should have been enshrined
among the martyrs, or that salt beef has monstrously degenerated.