“Ain’t this bloomin’ fun, sir?” asked the driver of a growler, his sides shaking with laughter, “Even my ole ’oss ’as bin larfin’.”
“Very intelligent horse,” we said, thinking of Mr. Pickwick, and determining to ask some searching questions as to his antecedents.
“Interleck’s a great p’int, sir. Which ’ud you sooner be in: a runaway mortar-caw or a keb?”
“Neither.”
“No, I ain’t jokin’, strite. I’ve just bin argying wif a bloke as said he’d sooner be in a caw. I said I pitied ’is choice, and wouldn’t give ’im much for his charnce. ’Cos why? ’Cos mortar-caws ain’t got no interleck. They cawn’t tell the dif’rence ’tween nothink an’ a brick wall. Now a ’os can. If ’e don’t turn orf ’e tries ter jump th’ wall, but yer mortar simply goes fer it, and then where are yer? In ’eaven, if yer lucky, or in——”
But the rest of his sentence was lost in the roar that ascended from the crowd as the cars commenced their journey to Brighton.
They went beautifully for a few yards, chased the mounted police right into the crowd, and then stopped.
“It’s th’ standin’ still as does it—not the standin’ still, I mean the not going forrard, ’cos they don’t stand still,” said the cabby, excitedly.
“Don’t they hum?” he cried.
“They certainly do make a little noise.”