“This fellow is the devil,” muttered the solicitor, suppressing a groan.
“Where, sir?” said the cabman through the hole in the roof.
“Norbiton.”
“Norbiton! Not to-night, sir; the ’oss is tired.”
“Take me to Norbiton,” said the solicitor sharply, “and never mind about your horse.”
“Very sorry, guv’nor—”
“Well, if you can afford to lose a sovereign—”
The cabman’s head disappeared immediately, and the horse started on its journey at a good round pace.
“These cabmen are the greatest robbers in Europe,” said the solicitor, settling himself in his corner. “They are a disgrace to London. One would like to see them taken over by the state.”
Although Mr. Whitcomb was ruffled by his companion’s strange pertinacity, his philosophic habit soon came to his aid.