The other driver, a bottle-nosed man, redeemed only from unusual shabbiness by the head-gear in question, winked, leered, and made some reply about “not 'aving such a fat head underneath it as some people.”
My friend turned to me with a confidential air. “You saw that gentleman as I addressed?” he said, in an impressive voice. “Well, that man was driving 'is own kerridge not five years ago. On the Stock Exchange 'e was, and worth ten thousand a year if 'e was worth a penny; 'ouse in Park Lane, and married to the daughter of a baronite. 'E's told me all that 'isself, so it's true and no 'umbug.
“'Ow did 'e lose 'is money? Hunfortunit speculations and consols goin' down; but you, being a furriner, won't likely understand.”
Looking as unsophisticated as possible, I pressed my friend for an explanation of these mysteries.
“Well,” said he, “it's something like this: If you goes on the Stock Exchange you buys what they calls consols—that's stocks and shares of various sorts and kinds, but principally mines in Australia, and inventions for to make things different from what they is at present. That's what's called makin' a corner, which ain't a corner exactly in the usual sense—not as used in England, that's to say, but a kind o' American variety.