a true story. I was in a cab with my old friend Mark, one of the most
ferocious sticklers for efficiency in underlings who ever sent for the
manager. His maledictions on bad waiters have led to the compulsory
re-decorating of half the restaurants of London months before their
time, simply by discolouring the walls with their intensity. Well,
after immense difficulty, Mark and I, bound for the West, induced a
driver to accept us as his fare, and took our places inside.

"He looks a decent capable fellow," said Mark, who prides himself on
his skill in physiognomy. "We ought to be there in a quarter of an
hour."

But we did not start. First the engine was cold. Then, that having
consented and the flag being lowered, a fellow-driver asked our man to
help him with his tail-light. He did so with the utmost friendliness
and deliberation. Then they both went to the back of our cab to see
how our tail-light was doing, and talked about tail-lights together,
and how easy it was to jolt them out, and how difficult it was to know
whether they had been jolted out or not, and how jolly careful one had
to be nowadays with so many blooming regulations and restrictions and
things.

Meanwhile Mark was becoming purple with suppressed rage, for the clock
was ticking and all this wasted time should, in a decently-managed
world, have belonged to us. But he dared not let himself go. It was
a pitiful sight--this strong man repressing impulse. At any moment
I expected to see him dash his arm through the window and tell the
driver what he thought of him; but he did not. He did nothing; but I
could hear his blood boil.