The postman assured us that
Scarborough was in flames. A road worker told us we should be turned
back, and another man warned us to beware of a big hole in the road
further along, large enough to swallow our horse and trap; yet we could
certainly see no flames issuing from Scarborough, which now lay directly
before us.
We put up the horse at a stable on the very edge of the city and walked
up the steep hill. The hotelkeeper and his wife, we were told, were
already "refugees."
Scarborough is a sprawling town that stretches a length of about three
miles from the extreme north end to the extreme south. Inland about a
mile and a half is a wireless station, and on the cliff, 300 feet high,
stands the ruined castle and its walled-in grounds, in the midst of
which is--or was, for it was yesterday blown clean away--a signal
station. Although there are barracks the town is unfortified. A seaside
resort of considerable importance, its population varies by many
thousands in Winter and Summer, with a stationary population of 45,000.
But to compensate for its Summer losses are the numerous fashionable
schools for both boys and girls.
We did not meet a deserted city when we entered. The streets were
thronging. There was a Sunday hush over everything without the
accompanying Sunday clothes, but people moved about or stood at their
doorways. Many of the shop fronts were boarded up and shop windows were
empty of display.
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