Looking ill prevail?
So they take a breather, light cigarettes, crack jokes. Then to it again.
Meanwhile all the hansoms in nocturnal London seem to swoop down on us, like sharks upon the dead whale. Up they rattle from this side and that, and every cabman flings a jibe as he passes.
“Look 'ere,” says one, pulling up. “Why don't yer take the genelmen where they want to go? That's what I asks yer. Why—don't—yer—take—the—genelmen—where—they—want—to go? It's only your kid. Yer don't want to go. That's what it is. Yer don't want to go.”
For the cabman is like “the wise thrush who sings his song twice over.”
“'Ere take ole Jumbo to the 'orspital!” cries another.
“We can't 'elp larfin', yer know,” says a third feelingly.
“Well, you keep on larfin',” says the chauffeur looking up from the inside of One a.m. “It suits your style o' beauty.”
A mellow voice breaks out:
We won't go home till morning,