Mr. Grace jerked on the reins. Cat’s Meat flung his legs apart, fell forward, fell backward, came to rest and grunted. He was for all the world like a chair giving way and making a desperate effort to hold together; only Cat’s Meat was always successful in dodging disruption—a chair in collapse isn’t.
“I see yer, Mr. Piece o’ Sucked Thread. I see yer. Yer cawn’t ‘ide from a man as sees double. Come h’out o’ that there shadder. Come h’out inter the blessed light. ‘No shadders yonder, no temptations there,’ as they sing in the H’Army o’ Salwashun.”
When there was no answer, Mr. Grace continued his harangue. “Blokey, yer ain’t got a chawnce in the world. I knows yer by yer ‘ang-dawg h’air. Yer wanted by the cops, I’ll bet a tanner. It’s Christmas h’Eve, blokey, so I won’t be ‘ard on yer; but yer’ve got ter pay fer ridin’ in me keb. Every bloke ‘as, or else I whacks ‘im on the snout.”
“Shish! Wot’s the matter?” The shadow by the wall spoke and stirred.
“Wot’s s’matter! I’ll let yer know wot’s s’matter if yer don’t pay me my fare. H’I druv yer from the Terrace and yer wuz goin’ ter King’s Cross, yer were. And yer opened the door by the pub darn there and jumped h’out.”
“You’re drunk, me man. H’I’m lookin’ fer the very chap yer blatherin’ about. Where did ‘e jump h’out?”
The detective stepped into the road so that the lights of the cab shone on him.
“Kum up, Cat’s Meat. I see nar; ‘e ain’t the feller.” Cat’s Meat came up one weary step and the wheels protested.
“No, yer don’t.” The detective caught hold of the reins. “Where’d this chap jump h’out?”
“‘Ands h’orf.” Mr. Grace rose up on his box threateningly, his whip raised as if about to bring it down. “‘Ands h’orf, I sye. Leave me prancin’ steed to ‘is own dewices, le’go o’ me gallopin’ charger.”