Mr. Widow, though
A murderer you be,
You’re
Sure, a very nice man—
A good enough pal for me.”
Mr. Widow came out, sincerely grieved, and expostulated. Mr. Grace begged his pardon profoundly. He told him that he’d always admired his religious whiskers; wouldn’t hurt his feelings, however many wives he’d murdered; wanted to be friends. He added, in a whisper, that he had a daughter who’d be all the better for a poker brought down smartly across her nut. She was religious, too, only she hadn’t got whiskers. Then he insisted on shaking hands, and was at last allowed to on condition that, if this token of esteem was granted, he would go away and never, never more come back—at least, not till morning.
What to do now? The night was young. A return to the stable was not to be contemplated; that daughter of his must be avoided. Some time, when he was a very old man, he’d go home to her. But not yet. It wasn’t every man who owned a blue and yellow cab with a hole in the roof of it.
Perhaps it was eleven—perhaps earlier. He was in Leicester Square, affording himself the supreme luxury of refusing to be hired. Coming down the steps of the Empire was a group of young men, broad-shouldered, slim of hip and in evening dress. Their arms were linked. As soon as they appeared, cheering began; a crowd gathered round. Someone commenced to sing. Others took it up:
“Mary had a little heart.
She lent it to a feller,