“Say, friend,” he enquired, “ain’t you got enough gas to take this lady where she belongs?”
“Gas?” The taxi-driver glared suspiciously.
“He means petrol,” interpreted the Special.
“I got about an inch-and-a-’alf in me tank,” replied the taxi-driver, half-resuming his professional air of martyrdom. “I been on this box since eight this mornin’, and ain’t ’ad a bite o’ dinner; but I’ll take the lady anywheres in reason. She ain’t arst me yet. I don’t want to be disobligin’ to nobody. ’Elp everybody, and everybody’ll ’elp you! That’s my motto. Give us a ’and, matey”—to Al Thompson—“and back my keb off the curb. Crank ’er up, Jock! Thanks! Good-mornin’, all! Good-mornin’, sir!”
“Good-morning!” called the old gentleman. “You have my card. Come and tell me how your sons are doing. Meanwhile I’ll tackle those rascals. We’ll get something done! Twice wounded! The same old story! Oh, criminal! Monstrous! Da—”
The cab rattled away, leaving the old gentleman to apostrophize His Majesty’s Government. The Special, with the air of a man who has performed a difficult and delicate task with consummate tact, packed up his pocket-book and resumed his beat.
“And now,” enquired the peevish voice of Joe McCarthy, “Where do we eat?”
They dined at a red plush restaurant somewhere off the Strand, and were introduced to some further War economies.
First, the waitress. By rights she should have been a waiter.
“Bin here nearly two years, now,” she informed them. “The last man here was called up in March. Sorry for the Army if there’s many more like him in it. Flat feet, something cruel. Anyhow, there’s only us girls now.”