“It’s all right, sir; jump in, sir. Ratty wants a run, and you can’t carry that there portmanter.”
“A bad beginning,” muttered Richard.
Then he stepped into the cab, and the apron was banged to, Sam hopped on to his perch, and away they rattled along the Strand into Fleet Street, and up Chancery Lane.
“He’s a-going it to-day, sir, aint he?” said a voice; and Richard turned sharply round, to see Sam Jenkles’s happy-looking face grinning through the trap. “He’s as fresh as a daisy.”
The little trapdoor was rattled down again, for other vehicles were coming, and Sam’s hands were needed at the reins, the more especially that Ratty began to display the strangeness of his disposition by laying down his ears, whisking his tail, and trying hard to turn the cab round and round, clay-mill fashion. But this was got over, the rest of the journey performed in peace, and Sam drew up shortly at the door of his little home, the two front windows of which had been turned into gardens, as far as the sills were concerned, with miniature green palings, gate and all, the whole sheltering a fine flourishing display of geraniums and fuchsias, reflected in window-panes as clean as hands could make them.
“Why, this would do capitally,” said Richard, taken by the aspect of the place.
“Dessay it would, sir,” said Sam, grinning; “but our rooms is let. But come in, sir, and see the missus—she’ll pick you out somewheres nice and clean. But, hallo! what’s up?”
Richard had seen that which brought the exclamation from Sam’s lips, and stepped forward to help.
For, about a dozen yards down the quiet little street, Mrs Lane was supporting Netta, the pair returning evidently from a walk, and the latter being overcome.
“Thank you—a little faint—went too far,” said Mrs Lane, as Richard ran up to where she was sustaining her daughter. “Netta, darling, only a few yards farther. Try, dear.”