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sparkling.
    “Hey, that would be a neat place to eat,” Mart said. “Across the street— The Carvery. I read about it in my gourmet guidebook. They have all kinds of roasts—prime rib, pork, leg of lamb, cold cuts—and you get to carve them yourself. You can eat all you want.” He eyed the building hungrily.
    “It is just about time to eat,” Trixie agreed. “But I wanted to go to a pub. And there’s a place called Tiddy Dol’s. I’m just dying to go there. And—”
    “There are restaurants here with food from every country in the world,” Jim said. “Japan, Armenia, Portugal, Greece—you name it. I’d like to try ’em all.”
    “But there’s one big advantage to The Carvery,” Mart pointed out. “It’s right across the street.”
    “I'm not going to cross that street,” Honey said firmly.
    When the Bob-Whites had sent off their first postcards that morning, Mart had written Di that English food was not as terrible as people said; it was nectareously ambrosial , underlined three times. Trixie had written Dan about the pickpocket. And Honey’s card had read: “Dear Brian, The streets are very narrow and wind-y. The cars whiz by on the wrong side of the street, and we (Americans) are terrified of crossing. The pedestrian has absolutely no rights in this country. Wish you were here, Honey.”
    Mart showed Honey a black-and-white-striped crossing halfway around the circle. “They call ’em zebra crossings,” he said.
    “I don’t know,” said Honey. “Even if we cross with the light, it always seems like as soon as the light changes, the cars shoot forward as if they’re out to get you. And I’m not used to the direction of the traffic, so I always look the wrong way before I cross. I think it’s a national sport—going after pedestrians!”
    “Come on,” said Trixie, linking arms with Honey. “We’ll all stick together. Concentrate on the good food awaiting us at The Carvery.”
    “Oh, woe,” said Honey with a resigned nod. Hundreds of sightseers and shoppers milled around the Bob-Whites as they waited for the light to change. Finally it did, and Trixie stepped off the curb. Despite their best efforts, the Bob-Whites found themselves getting separated from each other. Trixie felt Honey’s arm slip from hers, but it was a few seconds before she was able to reach backward for Honey’s hand.
    Then she saw that somehow, Honey had been shoved off the curb. Trixie plunged desperately after her, but it seemed like a hundred arms held her back. She could hardly move, and a huge red double-decker was lumbering straight toward Honey!
    “Honey, watch out!” Trixie shrieked.

Piccadilly Circus • 5

    STOP!” Trixie screamed, but of course the bus driver couldn’t hear her over the din of the heavy traffic. He drove on, directly over the spot where Trixie had seen Honey.
    Trixie screamed again and waved her arms frantically as she was carried along by the crowd to the opposite side of the street. Jim and Mart plowed their way through the crowd to Trixie.
    “Where’s Honey?” they asked anxiously.
    “She’s—she—” Trixie couldn’t get the words out. Her hands shook, and she felt sick with dread. She pointed at the back of the bus. It was still moving.
    A crowd of curious sightseers had gathered.
    “I saw ’er. She went right under the bus, she did!”
    “Och, the poor lass!”
    A ripple of horror ran through the onlookers.
    “But where is she?” Jim demanded, starting to head back across the street.
    A second bus was passing, close behind the first, but still there was no sign of Honey.
    “There!” Mart cried. “There she is!”
    A tall man with grizzled black hair was pushing his way toward them, with Honey in his arms. Her long blond hair hung over his shoulder. When he reached the Bob-Whites, he set her down—limp and pale, but all in one piece.
    “Oh, Honey!” Trixie burst into tears.
    “I’m okay,” Honey said shakily. “This m-man saved my life.”
    The big man