“Oh, you ‘ave, ‘ave yer? A reg’lar Sol Joel, that’s wot you are.”
He left his friends with a flourish. It was almost as though his youth had returned—almost as though he hadn’t a red nose and a daughter who tried to convert him. He felt young and smart this blowy morning. He didn’t want to see a reflection of himself; he wanted to pretend that he was a brisk young cabby, when cab-driving was an art and not a creeping means of livelihood. Flower-girls were at the corners, shaking daffodils and violets in the faces of the passing crowd.
“By the Lord Harry——!”
He signed to her with his whip—he felt affluent. He bought two bunches, and leant down from his box while she pinned one in his button-hole. The other he hid beneath the seat in Cat’s Meat’s nose-bag.
“Good luck, me gal—and a ‘andsome ‘usband.”
“The sime ter you, old sport.”
She blew him a kiss. Ah, if he had been young! Not a bad lookin’ gal! Not ‘arf!
He turned into Deane Street and crawled through Soho, that queer Chinese puzzle of cramped dwellings, all with fronts that look like backs. He pulled up outside the second-hand shop and entered with his whip, tied with blue ribbon, held out before him.
“‘Ow’s tride s’mornin’, Mr. Waffles? Get them ‘andker-chiefs, wot you call spats, on ter yer boots. Put a little glue on yer bloomin’ whiskers. ‘Urry up.—Where are we goin’? Yer’ll see presently.”
Ocky expostulated. The fear of Mr. Widow’s displeasure was heavy on him. “But what’ll I tell him? How’ll I explain to him?”