Very reluctantly Mr. Grace got out his whip—it was there for ornament; he rarely used it. “Nar, look ‘ere old friend, h’I don’t wanter do it.” But he had to.
Cat’s Meat shook his head sorrowfully and looked round. His feelings were hurt. When his master was drunk he accepted worse punishment than that without resentment, but his master wasn’t drunk now. Mr. Grace laid the whip again across his back. Cat’s Meat shrugged his shoulders and snorted, as much as to say, “Don’t blame me. Never say I didn’t warn yer.” Then he moved slowly forward.
“Now h’I wonder wot was the meanin’ o’ that?” reflected Mr. Grace. “Don’t like ‘is cargo, h’I bet. Well, h’I don’t, either. Won’erful h’intelligent h’of ‘im!”
Inside the cab Peter was asking, “But if you don’t like the ‘medicine,’ why do you take it?”
“Life’s dull for a chap,” said Ocky. He would have said more, but was shaken by a fit of coughing.
They crawled along by ill-lighted streets purposely, avoiding main thoroughfares. As they drew up outside the Misses Jacobite’s house, Peter saw the slits of the Venetian blinds turned and guessed that four tremulous ladies were watching. He opened the door for his uncle to get out As Mr. Waffles alighted, a man jumped from behind the cab.
“Yer caught, Cockie. Come along quiet.”
Mr. Grace heaved himself round. “Wot the devil!” He was blinking into the eyes of Grace’s policeman.
“We can walk to the station,” said Grace’s policeman, “but h’if you’d care to drive us—— Yer seem kind o’ fond o’ conductin’ this party round.”
“I’ll drive ‘im, but I’ll be ‘anged h’if I’ll drive you, yer great fat mutton ‘ead.”