They had pickaxes in their hands and wore corduroy
trousers and that little leather band below the knee that goes by the
astonishing name of "York-to-London."
They seemed to be working with peculiar vehemence, so that I
stopped and asked one what they were doing.
"We are taking up Picadilly," he said to me.
"But at this time of year?" I said. "Is it usual in June?"
"We are not what we seem," said he.
"Oh, I see," I said, "you are doing it for a joke."
"Well, not exactly that," he answered me.
"For a bet?" I said.
"Not precisely," said he.
And then I looked at the bit that they had already picked, and
though it was broad daylight over my head it was darkness down
there, all full of the southern stars.
"It was noisy and bad and we grew aweary of it," said he that wore
corduroy trousers. "We are not what we appear."
They were taking up Picadilly altogether.
AFTER THE FIRE
When that happened which had been so long in happening and the
world hit a black, uncharted star, certain tremendous creatures out
of some other world came peering among the cinders to see if there
were anything there that it were worth while to remember. They
spoke of the great things that the world was known to have had;
they mentioned the mammoth. And presently they saw man's temples,
silent and windowless, staring like empty skulls.
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