“Yes, sir.”
Mr Bunker handed his driver the money.
“Get rid of him, then. Take me anywhere through the city you like, and when he’s off the scent let me know.”
“Very good, sir,” replied the driver, cracking his whip till his steed began to move past the buses and the other cabs like a train.
On they flew, clatter and jingle, twisting like a snipe through the traffic. Mr Bunker perceived that he had a good horse and a good driver, and he smiled in pleasant excitement. He lit a cigar, leaned his arms on the doors, and settled himself to enjoy the race.
The black lions of Trafalgar Square flew by, then the colossal hotels of Northumberland Avenue and the railway bridge at Charing Cross, and they were going at a gallop along the Embankment. He got swift glimpses of other cabs and foot-passengers, the trees seemed to flit past like telegraph-posts on a railway, the barges and lighters on the river dropped one by one behind them: it was a fair course for a race, with never a check before Blackfriar’s Bridge.
As they turned into Queen Victoria Street he opened the lid and asked, “Are they still in sight?”
“Yes, sir; I’m afraid we ain’t gaining much yet. But I’ll do it, sir, no fears.”
Mr Bunker lay back and laughed.
“This is better than the Park,” he said to himself.