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Show 11 was born in Yorkshire," beamed Whiteside, glad to have struck on some commonality. "Will you go home by way of the bridge?" Lathrop nodded. He really did prefer the bridge to the ferry. "Then I'll walk with you as far as St. Paul's. That's where I parked my whirlycart." Lathrop nodded understandingly. If he had a whirlycart, he would have parked it at St. Paul's too. Better yet, he would have left it home and walked. To him, carriages were ponderous, jolting, springless things that the rich only pretended gave ease to their journeys. The dissimilar duo crossed over to the street known as the Strand. The rippled muddy tracks were cumbersome for carriages to maneuver on wet or dry days. Today the muddy tracks were hardened by the cold and made no attempt to delay the practiced pedestrian. Whiteside seemed unsure of his footing and took at least two steps for every one of Lathrop's. When Lathrop noticed the difficulty Whiteside was having, he slowed his pace to accommodate him. They pressed forward in silence for awhile, the memory of the pillory still intruding and quenching the usual pleasantries that accompany new |