“What's up here?” he asked, and Diamond knew the voice. It was that of the drunken cabman.
“Do you see this young oyster? He pretends to drive a cab,” said his enemy.
“Yes, I do see him. And I sees you too. You'd better leave him alone. He ain't no oyster. He's a angel come down on his own business. You be off, or I'll be nearer you than quite agreeable.”
The drunken cabman was a tall, stout man, who did not look one to take liberties with.
“Oh! if he's a friend of yours,” said the other, drawing back.
Diamond got out the nose-bag again. Old Diamond should have his feed out now.
“Yes, he is a friend o' mine. One o' the best I ever had. It's a pity he ain't a friend o' yourn. You'd be the better for it, but it ain't no fault of hisn.”
When Diamond went home at night, he carried with him one pound one shilling and sixpence, besides a few coppers extra, which had followed some of the fares.
His mother had got very anxious indeed—so much so that she was almost afraid, when she did hear the sound of his cab, to go and look, lest she should be yet again disappointed, and should break down before her husband. But there was the old horse, and there was the cab all right, and there was Diamond in the box, his pale face looking triumphant as a full moon in the twilight.
When he drew up at the stable-door, Jack came out, and after a good many friendly questions and congratulations, said: