I once asked a
booking-clerk for two sun spots of the Western coast, and he told me that
the refreshment-room was further on. But I digress.
One of the incidental difficulties in running down to Brighton is that the
rear end of the train queue often gets mixed up with the rear end of the
tram queue for the Surrey cricket ground, so that strangers to the
complexities of London traffic who happen to get firmly wedged in sometimes
find themselves landed without warning at the "Hoval" instead of at Hove.
To avoid this accident you should keep the right shoulder well down and
hold the shrimping-net high in the air with the left hand. If you do get
into the train the best place is one with your back to the window, for,
though you miss the view, after all no one else sees it either, and you do
get something firm to lean up against. It was while I was travelling to
Brighton in this manner that I discovered how much more warm this summer
really is than many writers have made out.
Around Brighton itself a lot of legends have crystallized, some more or
less true, others grossly exaggerated. There is an idea, for instance, that
all the inhabitants of this town or, at any rate, all the visitors who
frequent it, are exceedingly smart in their dress. Almost the first man
whom I met in Brighton was wearing plus 4 breeches and a bowler hat. It is
possible, of course, that this is the correct costume for walking to
Brighton in.
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