‘You’re from London?’ inquired Mr. Trott.
‘Driv a cab once,’ was the laconic reply.
‘Why don’t you drive it now?’ asked Mr. Trott.
‘Over-driv the cab, and driv over a ’ooman,’ replied the top-boots, with brevity.
‘Do you know the mayor’s house?’ inquired Mr. Trott.
‘Rather,’ replied the boots, significantly, as if he had some good reason to remember it.
‘Do you think you could manage to leave a letter there?’ interrogated Trott.
‘Shouldn’t wonder,’ responded boots.
‘But this letter,’ said Trott, holding a deformed note with a paralytic direction in one hand, and five shillings in the other—‘this letter is anonymous.’
‘A—what?’ interrupted the boots.