“Vot odds vot a cove’s number is?” says Cabby. “Tell ’em to make ’aste out.”
Now Cabby is not a member of the Bonded Brotherhood, for he has had two “goes” of gin since eight o’clock, and would have liked another—“only it runs away with the brass”; and if this were known he would probably lose his fare, although he has been sitting so long in the driving sleet or rain, and Dives, jun, has imbibed two or three glasses of sherry, three of champagne, and as many of port, during dinner and dessert.
The ricketty door of the vehicle is opened; the glass let down; dragged up again; and then, with a bang which threatens to dislocate every joint in the old cab’s body, the door is closed, the box mounted, when rattling and jangling, off goes the licensed carriage to deposit its freight.
Distance two miles, barely, time nearly midnight; what wonder that after a bad day our dinner companion pockets his “bob” with a growl, and sullenly mounts his box to seek a fairer fare?
Chapter Eleven.
K9’s Adventure.
One of the great peculiarities of the policeman is his head. Now, I do not mean that his head differs from the small or large capital at the head of most articles; but I allude to the use he makes of that important appendage to the human body. A nod is said to be as good as a wink to a blind horse; but leaving blind horses out of the question, the policeman’s nod is a great deal better than his wink. There is a majesty about one of his wags of the head that is sun-like in its powers; for as the snow dissolves, so melts away the crowd before that simple act. It would be a matter of no small difficulty to reduce the workings of his head to rule, on account of the vast number of exceptions which would intrude; but in spite of the attendant difficulties, I have learned something from my friend of the bracelet. What most men would do by a wave of the hand, Bobby does waggishly—that is to say, by means of his head. What one would do in a pointed manner with one’s finger, again, K9 performs with his head. If any ordinary being wished to eject an intruder from his premises he would give tongue—that is to say, not snarl or bark, but tell him to go in a very fierce tone of voice; but again, a wag of our friend’s head does the duty, and far more effectually. In short, the nod of emperor or king is not one half so potent in the upper regions of society as that of K9 with the people.
What awe there is amongst the small boys of the metropolis, and how they skim and scuffle off when the policeman wags his head; and yet, as they round a corner, how that never-to-be-beaten Briton peeps forth from their small natures as they yell defiance when out of reach. But in spite of his alacrity in fleeing, our friend holds the London gamin somewhat in dread. There is something very humiliating for a noble swell of a policeman to have to march off four feet six inches of puerile mischief—powerful in its very weakness—a morsel which acts as a barbed and stinging thorn in Bobby’s side all the way to the station. We can easily imagine the grim smile of satisfaction which would ripple over the countenance of our hero if, in traversing that part of Holborn called High, like Tom Hood, he came into contact with a mother bewailing the loss of her beloved child. We can easily believe that Bobby would fervently hope that the loss would prove his gain, that the child would be, like the old woman’s son Jerry in the ancient rhyme, lost and never found; that the young dog would never turn up again to plague his life, as he would be pretty sure to do at some future time, banding himself with birds of a similar feather, chalking the pavements, bowling hoops amongst the horses’ legs, dropping caps down areas, altering butter-shop tickets, running howling in troops out of courts, and disturbing the equanimity of foot passengers, cutting behind cabs, yelling inside shop doors, climbing lamp-posts and performing perilous acrobatic tricks on the ladder bar, giving runaway knocks and rings, casting themselves beneath horses’ hoofs and miraculously escaping death at every tick of the clock, making slides on the pave—ice in winter, mud in autumn or spring, and of the slippery stones in summer; in short, proving a most thorough plague, torment, and curse to our friend, who shuns the persecution, as beasts do gad-flies or hornets, from their painful insignificance.