Among these were a couple of cyclists, a jobbing gardener I
employed sometimes, a girl carrying a baby, Gregg the butcher and his
little boy, and two or three loafers and golf caddies who were
accustomed to hang about the railway station.  There was very little
talking.  Few of the common people in England had anything but the
vaguest astronomical ideas in those days.  Most of them were staring
quietly at the big table like end of the cylinder, which was still as
Ogilvy and Henderson had left it.  I fancy the popular expectation of
a heap of charred corpses was disappointed at this inanimate bulk.
Some went away while I was there, and other people came.  I clambered
into the pit and fancied I heard a faint movement under my feet.  The
top had certainly ceased to rotate.