“Do you like the sight of one?”
“Well, it ain't what I object to.”
“Then go fast, my man, and you will soon see plenty.”
“If you took to chaffin' a bit later in the day, it'd impart more confidence to my bosom,” said the cabman; but this he said to that bosom alone.
“Ain't no particular colours you'd like me to wear, is there? I'll get a rosette, if you like, sir, and enter in triumph. Gives ye something to stand by. That's always my remark, founded on observation.”
“Go to the deuce! Drive on,” Algernon sang out. “Red, yellow, and green.”
“Lobster, ale, and salad!” said the cabman, flicking his whip; “and good colours too. Tenpenny Nail's the horse. He's the colours I stick to.” And off he drove, envied of London urchins, as mortals would have envied a charioteer driving visibly for Olympus.
Algernon crossed his arms, with the frown of one looking all inward.
At school this youth had hated sums. All arithmetical difficulties had confused and sickened him. But now he worked with indefatigable industry on an imaginary slate; put his postulate, counted probabilities, allowed for chances, added, deducted, multiplied, and unknowingly performed algebraic feats, till his brows were stiff with frowning, and his brain craved for stimulant.
This necessity sent his hand to his purse, for the calling of the cab had not been a premeditated matter. He discovered therein some half-crowns and a sixpence, the latter of which he tossed in contempt at some boys who were cheering the vehicles on their gallant career.