and presently the hansom drew up before it, in Piccadilly. We went about
as a family in one hansom for sociability.

"Look here, driver," said poppa through the roof, "have we got there?"

The cabman, in a dramatic and resentful manner, pointed out the number
with his whip.

"There's the address as was given to _me_, sir."

"Well, there's nothing to get mad about," said poppa sternly. "I'm
looking for Marcus Trippit, tailor and outfitter."

"It's all right, sir. All on the brass plite on the door, sir. I can see
it puffickly from 'ere."

The cabman seemed appeased, but his tone was still remonstrative.

We all looked at the door with the brass plate. It was flanked on one
side by the offices of a house agent, on the other by a superior looking
restaurant.

"There isn't the sign of a tailor about the premises," said poppa,
"except his name. I don't like the look of that."

"Perhaps," suggested momma, "it's his private address."

"Well, I guess we don't want to call on Marcus, especially as we've got
no proper introduction. Driver, that isn't Mr. Trippit's place of
business. It's his home."