“Got to take him far, sir?”
“Far? No, constable. Let him lie down and go to sleep. Dishgusting thing man can’t come to see friend without getting drunk. Look at me—and Shmith.”
“Yes, sir; you’re all right enough,” said the constable. “Shall I lend you a hand?”
“No,” said the man with the moustache, “we’re all right; get us a cab.”
“Where, sir?” said the constable, with a grin; “don’t believe such a thing’s to be got, sir, a night like this. All gone home.”
At that moment from out of the fog there was a sudden jolt and the whish of a whip.
“Hullo?” shouted the policeman.
“Hullo!” came back in a husky voice, as if spoken through layers of flannel, “what street’s this?”
“Ramillies. Here’s a fare.”
There was a muttering, then a bump, jolt, and jangle of a cab heard, and a huge figure slowly seemed to loom up out of the fog in a spectral way, leading a gigantic horse, beyond which was something dark.