“What’s the row?” said the husky voice.
“These gents want a cab.”
“Oh, but I can’t drive nowheres to-night. I drove right into one pub, and then nearly down two areas. Where do you want to go.”
“John’s Hotel, Surrey Street, old man. Look sharp. Five bob.”
“Five what, sir? Why, I wouldn’t stir a step under ten. I’m just going to get my old horse into the first mews, shove on his nosebag and then get inside and go to sleep. I can’t drive. I shall have to lead him.”
“Give him ten,” said the man with the sharp voice.
“All right. Here, hold up, old man,” said the other. “Look sharp! See never I come out with him again.”
“Yes, don’t make a noise, or you’ll bring out the doctor,” said the other man, and the policeman went to the cab door.
The cab evidently objected to the fare, for the door stuck, and only yielded at last with a rattle, and so suddenly that John Whyley nearly went on his back. But he recovered himself, and held his light so that the utterly helpless man, who seemed as if composed of jelly, was pulled by one of his companions, thrust by the other, into the cab, and forced up on the back seat. “There y’are, const’ble,” said the man with the thick voice, “there’s something to get glass; but don’t take too much—like that chap—my deares’ frien’, it’s s’prising ain’t it? Tell cabman John’s Hotel.”
“All right, sir, he knows. Go ahead, cabby.”