Chum stood quietly on the seat, rested his fore-paws on the open
window and drank in London. Then he jumped down and went mad. He tried
to hang me with the lead, and then in remorse tried to hang himself.
He made a dash for the little window at the back; missed it and
dived out of the window at the side; was hauled back and kissed me
ecstatically, in the eye with his sharpest tooth ... "And I thought
the world was at an end," he said, "and there were no more people.
Oh, I am an ass. I say, did you notice I'd had my hair cut? How do
you like my new trousers? I must show you them." He jumped on to my
lap. "No, I think you'll see them better on the ground," he said, and
jumped down again. "Or no, perhaps you _would_ get a better view if--"
he jumped up hastily, "and yet I don't know--" he dived down, "though
of course, if you--Oh lor! this _is_ a day," and he put both paws
lovingly on my collar.

Suddenly he was quiet again. The stillness, the absence of storm
in the taxi was so unnatural that I began to miss it. "Buck up, old
fool," I said, but he sat motionless by my side, plunged in thought. I
tried to cheer him up. I pointed out King's Cross to him; he wouldn't
even bark at it. I called his attention to the poster outside the
Euston Theatre of The Two Biffs; for all the regard he showed he might
never even have heard of them. The monumental masonry by Portland Road
failed to uplift him.

At Baker Street he woke up and grinned cheerily. "It's all right,"
he said, "I was trying to remember what happened to me this
morning--something rather-miserable, I thought, but I can't get hold
of it. However it's all right now. How are _you_?" And he went mad
again.