A four-wheeled cab, driven by a sleepy driver, drove into sight.
Peace at once hailed it. The cabdriver looked surprised, as well he might be, at seeing a man in such a strange costume.
“What’s up?” he cried, looking down at our hero.
“Why, I’m in a devil of a pickle; that’s what’s up,” returned Peace.
“I’ve been to a masquerade, and some vagabond has stolen my hat and coat. I haven’t very far to go, but don’t like to walk home in this plight. Drive me to the corner of Fetter-lane.”
“I’m taking the horse and cab to the stables, and don’t want another fare,” said the driver, who was evidently like the animal he drove—fairly done over.
“It isn’t far,” said our hero, “I’ll pay you well. Drop me at the corner of Fetter-lane.”
“You’re a rum un,” answered the man. “Jump in.”
Peace did not desire any further altercation—he opened the door of the cab and jumped in.
The vehicle rumbled over the stones, passed through Great Queen-street, then Little Queen-street, and proceeded along Holborn till the corner of Fetter-lane was reached; then it was brought to a halt.