“Very good,” was the gracious reply. “Now I can act.” The Special turned to the cabman, with pencil poised. “Your name?”
“Most certainly you shell ’ave my name!” retorted the other, with the air of a master-tactician who at last sees his opponent walk into a long-prepared trap. “And my number, too! And you’ll oblige me, Constable, by takin’ his name and address as well. I don’t intend for to—”
“Your name?” suggested the Special unfeelingly.
“Henery Mosscockle, Number Five-oh-seven-oh—”
Details followed, all duly noted. Then came the turn of the old gentleman. He proffered a visiting-card, and gave another to the cabman, who apologized for being unable to reciprocate, on the ground that he had left his card-case on the Victrola in his drawing-room. Our Three Musketeers, together with their D’Artagnan, were moved to audible chuckles. The old gentleman, aware of their presence for the first time, swung round and addressed them.
“American soldiers!” he exclaimed. “Good-morning, gentlemen. I am sorry that you should have witnessed such a poor specimen of British patriotism. None of that sort in your country, I’ll be bound!”
Our friends saluted politely, and cast about for an answer which should be both candid and equally agreeable to all parties—not, when you come to think of it, a particularly easy task. But it was that ill-used individual, the taxi-driver, who replied. He thrust a bristling chin towards the old gentleman.
“Patriotism?” he barked. “As man to man, tell me—’ow old are you?”
“That,” snapped the old gentleman, “is my business!”