“Robert,” said Gypsy warmly, “where do you live?”
“Winchester Mews, N.W. 3,” said Lionel, “and my name’s Lionel. Move on.”
“It’s no name for the Beaten Track,” said Gypsy thoughtfully.
“I don’t follow no Beaten Track,” said Lionel. “All London’s my Beat, and the Moonshiners is my mark. And as sure as my name’s wot it is, one of these fine nights I’ll run ’em to earth.”
“Wouldn’t it be better,” said Gypsy, looking at the moon, “to run them to heaven?”
“Wot do you take me for?” asked Lionel with dignity. “A member of the Air-Force? Move on.”
Gypsy moved on, drank his coffee and ate his slab of cake in Lionel’s name, and hurried back to do his sign. But instead of saying “The Conductresses’ Feet” it now said,
THE CONDUCTRESSES’ POOR FEET
This human note (due entirely to Lionel) touched the General Omnibus Co.’s heart, and it convened a Board-Meeting on the spot. But long before that Gypsy had hastened home and conveyed the tidings to his fellow-conspirators. He was always a little excitable in telling a tale, and he swore that as Lionel left him he threw behind him on the pavement the shadow, not of a man, but of Scotland Yard, which by some trick of the moon with a cloud changed to the shadow of a Handley-Page, and finally spread itself to the semblance of a flying angel.
Mrs. Green said, “You and your fancies, nonsense!”