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Roundabout to Canterbury

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I

T was hard on noon of the sixteenth day of July,

that two men and a boy might have been seen

walking rapidly up the Strand from Charing Cross to Waterloo; for I choose to start in the solitary horseman style, as was once the fashion in every tale of high adventure.

Several thousand pedestrians might have observed, if they had been so curious, that each of these three swung a rucksack at his side; that each wore, as his whim dictated, an outing suit; that each head, against the law of London and the Magna Carta, was surmounted by a cap. If any of these thousand pedestrians, not to mention their lazy brethren who jolted on bus tops to the city—if anyone, I repeat, had been so rude as to have peeped within the strange bulging

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