A ROUGH CROSSING.
That military-looking gentleman, with his arm in a sling, and his head covered with bandages, has, I suppose, just returned from fighting the Dacoits in Upper Burmah?
I certainly am surprised when you inform me that he has only tried to cross a London street in a fog.
Do you really mean to say that the vehicle that just thundered past at twenty miles an hour, in the mist, was not a fire-engine, but only a covered Van?
Yes, I believe it is a fact that special beds in all the Hospitals are now reserved for Van-victims.
Of course it is difficult for a man in the Van to look to the Rear; still he need not swoop down on pedestrians quite so much like a highwayman, saying, "Your collar-bone or your life!"
If things go on as they are now doing, every covered Van will have to carry its own Surgeon and ambulance about with it.
What is that crowd for, and why is somebody shouting angrily? Oh, I suppose the old gentleman, who has been run over by the Coal-waggon and is lying bleeding on the asphalte, is remonstrating with the driver?
What? Can it really be the case that the driver is abusing the old gentleman for his stupidity in getting in his way?
I have heard that the Insurance Companies now insert in their policies a condition forbidding the crossing of any street in London, except under police escort.
And, finally, as nearly six thousand persons were run down in the streets of the Capital last year, is it not almost time that something were done to check the Van Mazeppa-Juggernaut in his wild career?
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