ANGEL PAVEMENT

are quite prepared to pour out information for nothing
to a fellow-citizen.

"Yes, just having a look," said Mr. Smeeth.

"Ar, there's some pretty work 'ere, if yer know where
to look for it, mister. I know the Fields well, I do. Some
big men's buried 'ere. An' I'll tell yer one o' em. Daniel
Defow's buried in Jere, boy, and I could take yer straight
to the plice. Yers, the grite Daniel Defow."

"Is that so? Now, let me see, who was he exactly?"

"Oo was 'e? Daniel Defow! Yer know Rawbinson
Crusoe, doncher? Rawbinson Crusoe on the island and
Man Friday an' all that? Thet's 'im. Defow—'e wrote
that. Cor!—think 'e did! Known all over the world,
that piece, all over the wide world. Well, 'e's in 'ere,
Daniel Defow, and I could take yer straight to the plice.
Yers, that's right. Monument, too—ee-rected by the
boys and girls of England to Daniel Defow 'cos 'e wrote
Rawbinson Crusoe—in 'ere. I tell yer, boy, there's some
big men in there—what's left of 'em."

Mr. Smeeth nodded and continued to stare idly
through the railings of Bunhill Fields, where the old
nonconformists are buried in mouldering eighteenth
century elegance, to which they had at least conformed
in death if not in life; and where, among the divines
and elders, not only Defoe, but also Bunyan and Blake,
the two God-haunted men, lie in the sooty earth, while
their dreams and ecstasies still light the world. As Mr,
Smeeth stared, something floated down, touched the
crumbled corner of the nearest headstone, and perished
there, A moment later, on the curved top of the little
wall beside him was a fading white crystal He looked
up and saw against the brassy sky a number of moving
dark spots. He looked down and saw the white flakes