footmen, their top hats in rubber cases, their hands full of
umbrellas, searched anxiously for their masters.

Outside upon the sidewalks and by the curbs, an apparently
inextricable confusion prevailed; policemen with drawn clubs
laboured and objurgated: anxious, preoccupied young men, their opera
hats and gloves beaded with rain, hurried to and fro, searching for
their carriages. At the edge of the awning, the caller, a gigantic
fellow in gold-faced uniform, shouted the numbers in a roaring,
sing-song that dominated every other sound. Coachmen, their wet
rubber coats reflecting the lamplight, called back and forth,
furious quarrels broke out between hansom drivers and the police
officers, steaming horses with jingling bits, their backs covered
with dark green cloths, plunged and pranced, carriage doors banged,
and the roll of wheels upon the pavement was as the reverberation of
artillery caissons.

"Get your carriage, sir?" cried a ragged, half-grown arab at
Cressler's elbow.

"Hurry up, then," said Cressler. Then, raising his voice, for the
clamour was increasing with every second: "What's your number,
Laura? You girls first. Ninety-three? Get that, boy? Ninety-three.
Quick now."

The carriage appeared. Hastily they said good-by; hastily Laura
expressed to Mrs. Cressler her appreciation and enjoyment. Corthell
saw them to the carriage, and getting in after them shut the door
behind him. They departed.