"Get work, get work;
Be sure 'tis better than what you work to get."


Two men were driving in a hansom cab westward through Cockspur Street.
One, a large individual of a bovine placidity, wore the Queen's
uniform, and carried himself with a solid dignity faintly suggestive of
a lighthouse. The other, a narrower man, with a keen, fair face and
eyes that had an habitual smile, wore another uniform--that of society.
He was well dressed, and, what is rarer carried his fine clothes with
such assurance that their fineness seemed not only natural but
indispensable.

"Sic transit the glory of this world," he was saying. At this moment
three men on the pavement--the usual men on the pavement at such
times--turned and looked into the cab.

"'Ere's White!" cried one of them. "White--dash his eyes! Brayvo!
brayvo, White!"

And all three raised a shout which seemed to be taken up vaguely in
various parts of Trafalgar Square, and finally died away in the
distance.

"That is it," said the young man in the frock-coat; "that is the glory
of this world. Listen to it passing away. There is a policeman touching
his helmet. Ah, what a thing it is to be Major White--to-day!
To morrow--_bonjour la gloire_"