CABBY; OR, REMINISCENCES OF THE RANK AND THE ROAD.
(By "Hansom Jack.")
No. XI.—CABBY'S NOTES ON NOVEMBER—FOG ON THE FIFTH—A PYROTECHNIC FARE—ASTRAY IN THE SUBURBS—FIREWORKS IN FOGLAND.
"Remember, remember, the fifth o' November"? You bet if there's any one does, 'tis a Cabby.
November's the month when all London's smudged out, and the Cockneyist driver runs wild as a babby.
Eugh! I could tell you some chump-chilling tales about life on the box in a London peasouper.
Which 'im who would stand, after twenty or so, must be 'ard as tin-tacks, and as tough as a trooper.
"Jimminy-whiz!" as Yank Mushgrubber puts it, our sububs in frost, with a fog, is tremenjous.
And arter a few 'ours cold crawl up to 'Ampstead, we long for a something to mend us or hend us,
We don't care much which, till the rum 'ot 'as warmed us. Ah! life is a matter of cumfable feeling,
And if it's wuth living or not is a question of temperytoor; that there ain't no concealing.
Wy, a chap warm, and one chilled to the marrer, is no more alike than hegg-flip and a hicicle.
Lose me about Peckham Rye in a fog, and I'd kick a stray dog, or knock over a bicycle.
Darkness as lets you drive into a lamp-post, and makes your shirt feel just like moist paper-mashy,
Would make a harkangel a porkypine; speshul if you've a lamp broke, and the branches are splashy.
You just take a saint or a syrup, and git 'im to drive a cross fare, in a fog, up to Streatham,
And find 'isself lost, running into a churchyard or up a blind halley, and if 'e don't let 'em
Fly frequent and free, words beginning in d, and a few more loud letters, as bring conserlation
In trials and tantrums to cabbies and gents, you can make 'im archbishop without consecration!
I'm nuts upon good old November—sometimes—though, when fog isn't on, and there ain't too much drizzle,
A spin through the sububs about ten o'clock, on the fifth, when the place seems aflare and a fizzle
With bonfires and fireworks, and up through the tree-tops the rockets go whizzing and busting like winking;
Wy, somehow it makes me feel just like a boy again; not a bad feeling, at least to my thinking.
Some years agone, on a damp, misty Guy-night, a jolly-faced gent, with one eye, and a bundle
As looked like a parcel o' props, came towards me a-trottin' as brisk as 'is short legs could trundle;
"Take me to Tooting?" 'e garsps. "At a price, Sir," I arnsers 'im sharp. "Right!" sez 'e; "put a name to it!"
"Fog's thickenin' up, Sir," I sez. "If you're game to say—so-much—I'm on." And the old gent was game to it.
Fust we'd a liquor, and then 'e sez "Fireworks!" a-bossing 'is bundle with one heye a-glitter.
"Don't blow us up, Sir. I ain't got no licence to carry hexplosives," I sez with a titter.
"Young 'uns a-waiting at Tooting," 'e sez; "so drive sharp, and I won't be too tight on the pocket;
I do like a good firework frolic, with boys, though I blew this heye out—as a boy—with a rocket."
"Plucky old cock, and most pleasant!" thinks I, tooling off at full trot with old Brock. "Here's a barney!"
But I was a mossel too previous this time, as I jolly well found when arf way through my journey.
Just this side o' Balham the fog grew—well black! There ain't no other word for it. Black as Thames banks are,
And thick as their mud. It you arsk where we got, you carn't know what a London Pertikler's queer pranks are.
We got everywhere save to Tooting, I fancy. Slap on to a common, bang into a river,
Or something dashed like it; I stuck to the box till my fingers were ice and my spine all a-shiver;
Then took out my lamp, and led Molly a mile or so. 'Twasn't no good. We pulled up in a medder,
Aside of a ditch wich I bloomin' near plumped in. "Hillo!" sez old Brock. "That was nearly a header!"
Tarblow Vivong! Not so very much vivong, though, seeing the lot was 'arf dead with the chatters.
"Well," sez old One-heye, "where are we, I wonder? Two guys—without bonfires! As mad as two 'atters
To try it so fur. 'Ave a nip! Ah! that's better. Don't grizzle! Neat brandy, like love and like ire, works
In warming one up. If we could draw attention. By Jove! 'Appy thought!! We will let off some fireworks!!!"
So said, and so done! Talk of pantermines! Scott! If you'd seen hus two shivering, wropt-up, grey ghostes.
Like two steaming bundles, a tumbling around, fixing rockets and catherine-wheels to damp postes,
And striking of splutt'ring fusees, you'd 'a' thought we was demons a doin' of Guy Fox's duties.
At last—whizz! Away went a couple of rockets a-rending the fog, reg'lar red-and-green beauties.
Don't talk of Der Fryshoots! We looked like a party of spooks celebrating the fifth in old bogland;
Wy even poor Molly pricked up 'er froze ears at this "Whistler-like picter of Fireworks in Fogland."
As old One-heye called it, wotever 'e meant. But it 'ad its effect though, for torches come flaring,
And voices come 'owling across the damp flats, to inquire wot it was that still neighbourhood scaring.
"Wy Huncle!!!" a sharp little nipper voice squeaks as the party drew nigh. Cries old Brock, "Wot, young Teddy!"
We wasn't a bow-shot away from the 'ouse where old One-heye was due, and the Guy-games all ready,
Though boshed by the fog! Talk of larfter and liquor! I don't think I ever felt dryer, or wetter,
But of both them taps, larf and lap, I don't care if on no Guy Fox night I don't get more, or better!