“Tell ‘im yer’ve stroked yer wife’s ‘ead wiv a poker. Tell ‘im she’s packed up sudden for a better land. Tell ‘im yer taikin’ a ‘oliday on the strength of it. Tell ‘im——.”
“Shish! He may hear. He’s sensitive.—All right. I’ll come.”
Mr. Grace had his own code of etiquette. He refused to let Ocky mount on the box beside him. “Ain’t done,” he said. From the nose-bag he produced the button-hole and presented it to his friend. “Git in,” he commanded, opening the door of his cab. Before he drove off he stooped and shouted in at the window, “Matey, this ain’t no bloomin’ funeral. Wriggle a smile on ter yer mouth. Laugh at the color of me bally keb.”
He cocked his hat to a jaunty angle and tugged on the reins, humming;
“Bill Higgs
Useter feed the pigs,
Caress ‘em with ‘is ‘obnail boots,
Tum-tee-tum.”
He couldn’t remember what came next, so he contented himself with whistling the opening bars over and over. He felt exceedingly merry.
Traffic seemed to be pouring all in one direction. Everyone was in high spirits; cabbies and bus-drivers kept up a ceaseless stream of chaff. The thud of hoofs on the wooden paving was the beat of a drum to which London marched. Everything was moving. Overhead white clouds dashed against sky-precipices. Window-boxes were rife with flowers. Parks and green garden patches swam up to cheer the endless procession, stood stationary and fluttered as it passed, then melted. Light blue and dark blue favors showed wherever the eye rested. Newsboys climbed buses shouting, and ran by the side of carriages, distributing their papers. At a halt, Mr. Grace turned and shouted to Ocky, “I sye, old cock, d’yer know where all us sports is goin’? We’re goin’ ter see yer nevvy.—Hi, Cat’s Meat, kum up.”