The cabman rubbed his ear, and looked blue.
“You’ll drive me home, cabby?” said the stranger.
“That I will, sir, for a week,” said the man, eagerly.
“We may as well exchange cards,” said the stranger, pulling out a case, and putting a muddy thumb upon the top card. “There you are—John Barnard, his mark,” he said, laughing. “Thanks once more. I’ll stick your card in here with mine; and now good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” said Trevor, frankly; and they shook hands.
“I shall know your face again.”
Saying which, after a curious stare in Trevor’s face, the stranger climbed into the cab, the driver touched up his horse, and the two street boys and the crossing-sweeper, who had been attracted to the scene, were about to separate, when the latter pounced upon something white and held it up to Pratt.
“Did yer drop this ’ere, sir?”
“No,” said Pratt, looking at the muddy note; “but here is sixpence—it is for one of my friends.”
Directly after, to the disgust of the two exquisites, Trevor, soiled from head to foot, was laughing heartily at the rueful aspect of Frank Pratt as he entered the hall.