Ratcliffe Highway was hectic, with crowds of seamen just off the ships, at least one p********e for every two men. Standing out among the majority, a few respectable families who had taken the wrong turning searched for a quick escape before the locals contaminated them by touch or association. Watters had exchanged his high hat for a low-crowned affair that was less distinctive and tried to adopt a slouch as he shouldered his way through the crowds.
As he walked, he took mental notes of the places he passed to remind him what sort of place the Highway was. He fingered his cane: it was only two months since an American seaman stabbed Constable Ambridge exactly where he stood. Across the road was the Hope and Anchor where two friends fell out over the immoral earnings of one of them, and c
