A Straggler of '15 by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

It was a dull October morning, and heavy, rolling fog-wreaths lay low / over the wet grey roofs of the Woolwich houses. Down in the long, / brick-lined streets all was sodden and greasy and cheerless. From the / high dark buildings of the arsenal came the whirr of many wheels, the / thudding of weights, and the buzz and babel of human toil. Beyond, the / dwellings of the workingmen, smoke-stained and unlovely, radiated away / in a lessening perspective of narrowing road and dwindling wall.

There were few folk in the streets, for the toilers had all been / absorbed since break of day by the huge smoke-spouting monster, which / sucked in the manhood of the town, to belch it forth weary and / work-stained every night. Little groups of children straggled to / school, or loitered to peep through the single, front windows at the / big, gilt-edged Bibles, balanced upon small, three-legged tables, which / were their usual adornment. Stout women, with thick, red arms and / dirty aprons, stood upon the whitened doorsteps, leaning upon their / brooms, and shrieking their morning greetings across the road. One / stouter, redder, and dirtier than the rest, had gathered a small knot / of cronies around her and was talking energetically, with little shrill / titters from her audience to punctuate her remarks.