Till daylight does appear.
And the refrain is taken up by half a dozen cabmen in comic chorus. Those who can't sing, whistle, and those who can neither sing nor whistle, croak.
We sit inside patiently. We even joke too. All but the man with the big bag. He sits eyeing the bag as if it were his life-long enemy.
He appeals again to the conductor, who laughs.
The tipsy man with the tall hat staggers outside. He comes back, puts his head in the doorway, beams upon the passengers, and says:
“It's due out at eight-thirty in the mor-r-ning.”
We think better of the tipsy gentleman in the tall hat. His speech is that of the politest people on earth. His good humour goes to the heart. He is like Dick Steele—“when he was sober he was delightful; when he was drunk he was irresistible.”
“She won't go any more to-night,” says the conductor.
So we fold our tents like the Arabs and as silently steal away. All but the man with the big bag. We leave him still, struggling with a problem that looks insoluble.
Two of us jump into a hansom that still prowls around, the last of the shoal of sharks.