“What have you got to say?”
The taxi-driver, having by this time cleared his larynx of cigarette-ash, shrugged his shoulders.
“Me? Oh, nothink! What I say don’t matter. I’m a poor man: I don’t count for anythink. That old garrotter only tried to murder me—that’s all! Flew at me, he did, out of the middle of the road like a laughin’ hyena, and nearly broke my neck, besides wreckin’ my keb. But of course I don’t matter. Let ’im ’ave it ’is own way. One law for the rich, and another—”
“Do you charge this gentleman with assault?” interpolated the Special, who had evidently come to the conclusion that it was time to get down to the rigid official formula provided for such occasions as this.
“Charge ’im? And waste ’alf a workin’ day at a blinkin’ police court, waitin’ for the case to come on? Not me!” replied the taxi-man, with evident sincerity. “Oh, no, I’m only a pore—”
“Constable, will you please tell this man to drive me to Half-moon Street?” demanded a high-pitched voice from the interior of the cab.
“I have no power to compel him to drive you anywhere, madam,” replied the Special, with majestic humility.
“Well, what powers have you got?” shouted the old gentleman.
“At your request, sir, I can take his name and number, and you can charge him with declining to ply for hire when called upon to do so,” chanted the limb of the Law. “Do you wish to charge him?”
“Wish?” shrieked the old gentleman. “Of course I wish! I mean”—as he met the cold and steady eye of the Special—“I shall be obliged if you will charge this man, officer.”