You see you calls them black fellows men and brothers, but I’m blest if I think some people thinks as we are; for, instead of brothers, they treat us as if we was werry distant relations indeed, and then sets to and fights it out with us for every sixpence we earns. Don’t believe a word we say, they don’t, and as to thinking we’re honest—bless your heart no, not they! “Oh, they’re a bad lot, kebmen,” says Mrs John Bull, and she says as the straw’s musty, the lining fusty, and the seat’s dusty, and then grumbles at the horse, and blows up the driver and flings dirt at him.
“You rascal—you scoundrel! I’ll summons you; I’ll put you on the treadmill; I’ll have the distance measured; I’ll—I’ll write to the Times and have your rascality exposed. Drive me to Bow Street—no to Great Marlbro’ Street—or—there—no, take your fare, but mind I’ve taken your number, and I’ll introduce the subject in the House this very night.”
“I’ll—I’ll—I’ll,” I says to myself. “Nice ile yours ’ud be to grease the wheels of Life with.” And that was Mr MP, that was; for it was over a mile as he rode. And only think of wanting to put a Hansom driver off with sixpence. Then, again, I drives a gent to the rail, and his missus with him, and when he gets out he sorter sneaks a shillin’ into my hand, and then’s going to shuffle off, when “Wot’s this here for?” I says.
“Your fare, my man,” he says, werry mildly.
“Hayten-pence more,” I says.
“Sixpence a mile, my good man,” he says, “and Mogg’s guide says that—”
“Mogg’s guide doesn’t say that kebs is to be made carriers’ waggons on for nothing,” I says; and then the porters laughed, and he gives me the difference of the half-crown; and only nat’ral, for I’ll tell you what there was. First there was three boxes—heavy ones—on the roof; two carpet-bags and a portmanty on the seat aside me; a parrot’s cage, a cap-box, a gun-case, and a whole bundle o’ fishing-rods, and umbrellys, and things on the front seat; and him and his missus on the back. And arter the loading up and loading down, and what not, I don’t think as it was so werry dear. I sarved him out, though, for I took and bit every blessed bit o’ silver, making believe as I didn’t think ’em good, and stood grumbling there till the porters had got all the things in, and Master Generous had put hisself outer sight.
You see, sir, it ain’t us as has all the queer pints; there’s some as I knows on, if they was brought down to kebbing, ’stead of being swells, they’d be a jolly sight worse than we.
Didn’t know Tom Sizer, I s’pose? No, you wouldn’t know him, I dare say. Out an out driver, he was, poor chap. But what was the use on it to him? Just because he was clever with the reins, and could do a’most anything with any old knacker of a ’oss, the guv’nor sets him up the shabbiest of any man as went outer the yard. There he was, poor chap, with the wust ’oss and the wust keb, and then being only a seedy-looking cove hisself, why he turned out werry rough. But that didn’t matter; Tom allus managed to keep upsides with the guv’nor, and was never behind. Being a quiet sorter driver, yer see, he’d got some old ladies as was regular customers, and one way and another he made it up. And it was always the guv’nor’s artfulness, you know: he had old ’osses and a old keb or two, and if he’d sent some men out with ’em they’d ha’ brought back a’most nothing.
A regular sharp, teasing winter came on; rain, and freeze, and blow; and then our pore old Tom he got dreadful shaky at last, and his cough teased him awful, so none of us was surprised when we found one day as he warn’t come to the yard; nor we warn’t surprised next day when he didn’t come; nor yet when a whole week passed away and his keb stood under the shed, and his ’oss kep in the stable, for they was such bad ’uns none of our chaps’d have anything to do with ’em; and more’n once I see the guv’nor stand with his hat half-raised in one hand, and scratting his head with t’other, as he looked at the old worn keb, as much as to say, “I shall never make anything outer that any more.”