"Oh, I'm tired of egsplanations. A horning's a horning, what they put up when they gives a party; leastways," he added reflectively, "Hi don't."
"But there's no party at Number 402," I insisted. "The thing's impossible."
"Very well, then; I'm a liar, and that ends it." He wheeled again and began to walk his horse sullenly forward. "'Oo's blind this time?" he demanded, coming to a standstill in front of the house.
An awning stretched down from the front door and across the pavement, where two policemen guarded the alighting guests from pressure by a small but highly curious crowd. Overhead, the first-floor windows had been flung wide; the rooms within were aflame with light; and, as I grasped the rail of the splashboard, and, straightening myself up, gazed over the cab-roof with a wild surmise into the driver's face, a powerful but invisible string band struck up the 'Country Girl' Lancers!
"'Oo's a liar now?" He jerked his whip towards the number "402" staring down at me from the illuminated pane above the awning.
"But it 'is my own house!" I gasped.
"Hoh?" said he. "Well, it may be. I don't conteraddict."
"Here, give me my bag!" I fumbled in my pocket for his fare.
"Cook giving a party? Well, you're handy for the Wild West out here—good old Earl's Court!" He jerked his whip again towards the awning as a North American Indian in full war-paint passed up the steps and into the house, followed by the applause of the crowd.
I must have overpaid the man extravagantly, for his tone changed suddenly as he examined the coins in his hand. "Look here, guvnor, if you want any little 'elp, I was barman one time at the 'Elephant'—"