“Oo? The cops?”
“Yes. Grace’s policeman.”
Mr. Grace sat up with such violence that the cab groaned in its ancient timbers. “The devil, ‘e is! A nice, h’amiable man, my Grice’s policeman! ‘E’s allaws makin’ h’enmity ‘tween me and my darter. ‘E watches the pubs and tells ‘er abart me, and ‘im no better ‘imself. H’I ‘ate’ im. So ‘e’s after yer uncle?”
“He and a tall thin man who’s been watching our house for a fortnight. My uncle’s up the Crescent hiding in the front garden of an empty house. You’ve got to help me to get him away and hide him.”
Mr. Grace laid his finger against his bulbous nose. “Daingerous work, Peter! Daingerous work! H’its against traffic reg’lations to h’aid and h’abet a h’escapin’ criminal. Wot yer goin’ ter do wiv ‘im if I lends yer me keb?”
Peter bent his head and whispered.
Mr. Grace chuckled, slapping his fat thighs. “Blime! Lord love us! That ain’t ‘alf bad. That’s one in the h’eye for me darter’s young feller. H’I’m on, me lad.”
An irascible old gentleman who had been stamping his feet on the pavement, looking for the driver, now rattled his stick on the side of the cab.
“‘Ere, don’t yer do that. Yer’ll knock the paint h’orf.”
“I’ve been waiting out here for half an hour. It’s disgraceful. Drive me to Paddington.”