THE CABMAN'S STORY


The Mysteries of a London "Growler"

We had to take a "growler," for the day looked rather threatening and
we agreed that it would be a very bad way of beginning our holiday by
getting wet, especially when Fanny was only just coming round from
the whooping cough. Holidays were rather scarce with us, and when we
took one we generally arranged some little treat, and went in for
enjoying ourselves. On this occasion we were starting off from
Hammersmith to the Alexandra Palace in all the dignity of a
four-wheeler. What with the wife and her sister, and Tommy and Fanny
and Jack, the inside was pretty well filled up, so I had to look out
for myself. I didn't adopt the plan of John Gilpin under similar
circumstances, but I took my waterproof and climbed up beside the
driver.

This driver was a knowing-looking old veteran, with a weather-beaten
face and white side whiskers. It has always seemed to me that a London
cabman is about the shrewdest of the human race, but this specimen
struck me as looking like the shrewdest of the cabmen. I tried to draw
him out a bit as we jogged along, for I am always fond of a chat; but
he was a bit rusty until I oiled his tongue with glass of gin when we
got as far as the "Green Anchor." Then he rattled away quickly enough,
and some of what he said is worth trying to put down in black and white.

"Wouldn't a hansom pay me better?" he said, in answer to a question
of mine. "Why, of course it would. But look at the position! A
four-wheeler's a respectable conveyance, and the driver of it's a