“There he is,” shouted a voice from above me, whose effect was like electricity to my shattered frame, for I leaped up, and gaining the pathway, fled to the road, and then on towards the station, only pausing once to listen for the sounds of pursuit and to tie my handkerchief round my head to screen it from the icy breeze. I ran till I was breathless, and then walked, but only to run again, and this I kept on till I had passed the six miles between Broxby’s Beat and Ancaster, where I arrived just before the night mail came in, at a quarter to four.
One of the porters was very civil, and, supposing that my hat had been blown off and lost, sold me a very dirty old greasy cap for five shillings, and then I once more felt safe as I leaned back in a carriage, and felt that we were going towards London at the rate of forty miles an hour. But I did not feel thoroughly safe until I had gained entrance, in the cold dark morning, to my chambers by means of my latchkey, and having barricaded the door, tried to forget my sorrows in sleep, but I could not, while, as my laundress supposed that I should be away for a week, everything was in a most deplorable state, in consequence of the old woman meaning to have a good clean up on Boxing-day.
I did not go out for a week, for I had to take precautions for my health’s sake, putting my feet in hot water, and taking gruel for the bad cold I caught; but for that, and the nervous shock, I was not hurt, though my clothes were much torn. It was about eight days after that a letter arrived while I was at breakfast, bearing the Ancaster post-mark, directed to me in Broxby’s familiar hand; but I had read it twice, with disgust portrayed on every lineament, before I perceived that my late friend had evidently written to his brother and to me at the same sitting, when, by some hazard, the letters had been cross-played and put in the wrong envelopes, for the abominable epistle was as follows:—
“Dear Dick,—You should have come down. Such a spree. My ribs are sore yet with laughing, and I shall never get over it. I sent old Gus Littleboy an invite. Poor fool, but no harm in him except blundering. The Major was here; quite a houseful, in fact. Gus was to sleep with Tim Peters, and got somehow into the Major’s room while he was down with me finishing the toddy. Murder, my boy. Oh! you should have been here to hear the screaming, and seen the Major stamp and go on. He kicked the panel in, when poor Gus fled by the window, and has not sent for his traps yet. For goodness sake contrive for the Major to meet him at your place when I’m up next week. It will be splitting, and of course I can’t manage it now.
“Yours affectionately,
“Joe Broxby.”
I need scarcely tell a discerning public that I refused the invitation sent me by Mr Richard Broxby, of Bedford Square, when it arrived the next week; while when, some months after, I encountered the Major and his wife upon the platform of the Great Nosham, Somesham, and Podmorton Railway, I turned all of a cold perspiration, for my nerves will never recover the shock.
Chapter Eleven.
Cabby at Christmas.
Rather cold outside here, sir; but of course, if you like riding on the box best, why it’s nothing to me, and I’m glad of your company. Come on. “Ony a bob’s worth, Tommy,” says that chap as drove Mr Pickwick, him as set the old gent and his friends down as spies. The poor chap must have had a bad day, you see, and got a bit raspy; and I’ve known the time as I’ve felt raspy, too, and ready to say, “Ony a bob’s worth, Tommy.” You see ours is a trade as flucterates a wonderful sight, and the public’s got it into their heads as we’re always a-going to take ’em in somehow or other; so jest like that American gal in the story, “Don’t,” says Public. “Don’t what?” says we. “Don’t overcharge,” says Public. “Well, we wasn’t a-over-charging,” says we. “No, but aint you going to?” says Public. Puts it into our heads, and makes us charge extra through being so suspicious. You see we’re poor men, but not such a bad sort, considering. Public servants we are, badged and numbered, bound to do work by fixed rule and charge, so what I say is that you should treat us accordingly. “Civil and pleasant,” says you—“Civil and pleasant,” says we. “Drawn swords,” says you—“Drawn swords,” says we. Peace or war, which you likes, and the Beak for umpire. There’s a werry good sorter clay underneath some of our weskets, if you only takes and moulds it the right way, when you’ll find all go as easy as can be; but make us ill-tempered and hot, why of course we turns brittle and cracks; while, you know, if you goes the other way too far, and moistens our clay too much, why—Well, human natur’s only human natur, is it? and of course the clay gets soft and sticky, and a nuisance. Keep half-way, you know, and then you’re all right, and will find us decent working, when you moulds us up and brings out a model cabby.