As it was, the driver of the taxi, owing to this dereliction of duty upon the part of Constable X—a kind man certainly, and about to become a sergeant—sat down again in the saddle and proceeded to let her out a bit further. So that anon, swinging along that perilous place where four-and-twenty metropolitan ways converge, yclept Hyde Park Corner, he came within an ace of running down a perfectly blameless young man in an old bowler hat and a reach-me-down, the author of this narrative, who was on his way to consult with his respected publisher as to whether a work of ripe philosophy would do as well in the autumn as in the spring.
The young man in the old bowler hat—old but good of its kind, purchased of Mr. Lock in the street of Saint James on the strength of “the success of the spring season” (for the reach-me-down no defense is offered)—the young man in the old bowler hat stepped back on to the pavement with as much agility as an old footballer’s knee would permit, and cursed the occupant of the taxi by all his gods for a bloated plutocrat, and in the unworthy spirit of revenge vowed to make him the hero of his very next novel.
A cruel revenge, but not, we think, unjustified. Idle rich young fellow—toiled not, neither did he spin—nursing a gold hunting repeater in a coat with an astrachan collar and one of Messrs. Scott’s latest—with a red face and a suspicion of fur upon the upper lip—taking five kids who had lost their mother to the pantomime without his lunch—how dare he run down a true pillar of democracy at the rate of thirty-five miles an hour!
At nine minutes past one by the gold hunting repeater, in the middle of Victoria Street, the hard thought occurred to the young man that he would get no lunch. Still, let us not overdo our regard for his heroism. He had not finished his breakfast until something after eleven, and his breakfast had consisted of three devilled kidneys on toast, a plate of porridge, a grilled sole, muffins, marmalade and fruit ad libitum, but still the young chap was undoubtedly going to miss his luncheon.
At twelve minutes past one by the gold hunting repeater, the heir to the barony was acclaimed in triumph from the threshold of Number 300 Eaton Place by five kids and their nannas, who were beginning almost to fear that Uncle Phil had forgotten to call for ’em.
“It is only Aunty Cathy that forgets,” said Marge, who, considering that at present she is only five, has excellent powers of observation. “Uncle Phil never forgets nothink.”
Shrill cheers greeted the idle, rich young fellow. Blow, blow thy whistle, Butler. Let us have another taxi up at once. Marge and Timothy and Alice Clara in taxi the first with Uncle Phil; Nannas Helen and Lucy with Dick and the Babe in taxi the second.
“Must be at Drury Lane,” said Uncle Phil to Messieurs les Chauffeurs, “before the risin’ of the curtain at one-thirty.”
Those grim evil-doers nodded darkly, and away they tootle-tootled round the corner into the Buckingham Palace Road. One fourteen, said the gold hunting repeater. Bar accidents, we shall do it on our heads.
“Oh, Uncle Phil,” said Marge, “we’ve forgotten Daddy.”