Mr. Grace waddled out of the cab and shut the door behind him, leaving Peter inside. “I’m h’engaged,” he said.
While he removed the nose-bag from Cat’s Meat’s head and gathered up the reins, the old gentleman addressed a few remarks, the purport of which was that Mr. Grace would find himself without a license.
As the cab turned to climb the Crescent, Mr. Grace made an effort to outdo this burst of eloquence.
“None o’ yer lip, old bladder o’ lard. I know your sort. Yer the sort ‘as ain’t got no change fer a tip and feels un-’appy as ‘ell abart payin’ a fare.”
CHAPTER XIX—THE CHRISTMAS CAB
As they neared the empty house, Peter was about to thrust his head out of the window. He had the words on the tip of his tongue to say, “Stop here, Mr. Grace.” So much were they on the tip of his tongue that he almost believed he had said them. But he darted back, crouching in the darkest corner of the fusty cab. At a little distance, watching the gate, he had caught sight of a man.
Cat’s Meat crawled on, ascending the hill. At the top, where the Terrace began, Mr. Grace halted. “‘Ere, young ‘un, where are we goin’? You’ll be ‘ome direckly.”
“Turn the corner,” Peter whispered from inside the growler; “turn the corner quickly.”