(from The Raker by Andrew Sinclair)

As Adam Quince approached the newspaper building where he worked, a news item took place under the windows of Fleet Street. A badger appeared from nowhere, and was run over by a double-decker bus. Adam saw the black-and-white creature dead in the roadway, while the driver of the bus and some passers-by looked curiously down. He crossed the street to join in the conversation of the mourners.
‘What is it? A dog gone wrong?’
‘A badger.’
‘A badger in Fleet Street? Is this a record?’
‘It must have come from the Zoo.’
‘Perhaps it came out of a drain. The old Fleet river does run underneath.’
‘The Fleet’s a sewer now.’
‘Badgers like dirt.’
‘Not dirt that powerful. Perhaps a joker let it loose.’
‘You never know what the papers won’t do for news.’
Adam stared at the crushed snout and the striped flanks of the beast. Only the seeping blood was alive on its still length. As it lay there, it looked strangely relevant. Its colouring belonged to a city of concrete and tarmac. Adam remembered his old history column in the newspaper. For a year, he had been forced to read up on his adopted city. When York had been civilized, London was a mere swamp. Badgers had hunted in the marshes here a thousand years ago. The present streets were laid over their earths. Perhaps the instinct of brutes, like humans, was a quest for their roots.
As Adam crossed the road again towards the entrance to his office, he noticed another unusual thing. A vendor had dared to come into Fleet Street. This man was dressed in a dark suit and a bowler hat. His face was as fleshed and ruddy as any City business man. Only his open brown suitcase gave away his trade. That, and the specimen toys that stood at his feet.
The toys were some three inches high. They were replicas of their master, with bowler hats and dark suits and red faces. They worked off a bulb held in his hand. When he pressed the bulb, which he did every ten seconds, the little men all raised their hats at once. When the spurt of air gave out, they lowered their hats again.
‘I’ll have one,’ Adam said.
The man bent down and gave Adam a manikin in its plastic wrapper.
‘Only two-and-six, sir.’
Adam paid and took the toy. As he walked off, he saw the vendor raise his own bowler hat in thanks. At the same time, the little men all raised their hats. Adam looked down at the legend on the plastic wrapper. Mr Good Morning says, Courtesy Counts.
Adam went in through the revolving door of the newspaper building, across the black marble hall, past the reception desk, and over to the lift. It was waiting for him. He entered. He was depressed each time that he had to touch the button to descend to the basement. No man should have to descend to do his work.