“He’s a-using his whip, he is, to rights,” said the ostler boy.
“Hullo!” said poor old Tommy Byles; “here’s another bloomin’ loonattic. Blowed if there ain’t.”
“It’s old George,” said Old Tootles, “and he’s drivin’ a loonattic, as you say. Ain’t he a-clawin’ out of the keb? Wonder if he’s after ’Arry ’Icks?”
The group round the cabmen’s shelter became animated. Chorus: “Go it, George!” “It’s a race.” “You’ll ketch ’em!” “Whip up!”
“She’s a goer, she is!” said the ostler boy.
“Strike me giddy!” cried Old Tootles. “Here! I’m a-goin’ to begin in a minute. Here’s another comin’. If all the kebs in Hampstead ain’t gone mad this morning!”
“It’s a fieldmale this time,” said the ostler boy.
“She’s a followin’ him,” said Old Tootles. “Usually the other way about.”
“What’s she got in her ’and?”
“Looks like a ’igh ’at.”