"MY saying is," observed the driver of an omnibus to a gentleman at his side, "that it is right to be sociable; for if we are to have friends, we must be friendly ourselves." "Capital remark, that," we thought, while sitting down at the other side of the rather elevated box, waiting an opportunity to join in the conversation. The man was not quite unknown to us, as, in our almost daily journeys to the City, we had mounted at his side in turn with that of other knights of the whip who drove omnibuses from one of the suburbs to the centre of the mighty City—the Bank.
Once before, a short terse sentence had, in our hearing, been uttered by him which made a favourable impression, and we were now certain that James was a character—a man with an individuality. He was certainly respected by his fellows, as, while many others had singular names given them, expressive of peculiarities or contempt, he was always addressed as James; and it was certain, from the hurried words shouted by the drivers as they rapidly passed each other, that he dared to be singular by paying like respect to them. It was thus that we got to know the christian or surnames of men who were addressed by others as Kitty, Cranky, Boosey; and even "Ugly Jib"—as a worthy man was called in derision of a facial deformity—smiled pleasantly as our driver, in cheery tone, gave the rapid word of greeting, "Fine morning, Dan," or "Raw evening, Dan; button up tight."
A kindliness of disposition was also evident by the style in which he handled the "ribbons;" with a care and decision peculiar to the man, as though fearful of jagging the horses with the bit. As for the whip, it was simply what he called it, "his ornament." To have used it with violence upon his dumb friends never entered his mind. This was evident one dreary night when we had stayed late in the City, and happened to be the only outside passenger. As the hill was ascended near the end of the journey, the horses slackened pace almost to a walk. Now, we thought, is time for use of the "ornament;" and use it he did, but in a gentle manner. Patting one horse upon the neck with it, he said in an encouraging tone, "Now, Polly; come, get on;" and then passing it over to the other, he stroked kindly and said, "This won't do, Sally; come, pull up." Then followed the "click, click, click," an accomplishment of the mouth only attainable by the thorough "bus" driver; and then the horses, as with a human sense of the power of kindness, took the collar and cheerfully capped the hill.
"And so you treat your cattle as young ladies, do you?" we observed.
"Well, you see, sir," he replied, "as the saying is, 'the man that's any good considers his beast;' and it answers, as I can keep time as well as any one; and the foreman of the yard never finds fault, as I run them in quite comfortable, not all reeking and trembling as some do. And then, when I go into the yard of a morning, the pretty creatures look round and shake their manes, as much as to say, 'Good morning, master, we shall get on all right to-day.' You see, sir," he continued, after a thoughtful pause, "I have two daughters at home, Mary and Sarah, and good girls they are, though I don't see much of them; and as I am always thinking of them I mention them like to the horses when I want to pull up to time and the like."
"Your daughters, I suppose, go out to some employment, as you see so little of them?"
The answer was not immediately given, as the man hung his head and with ill-concealed emotion said, "No, sir, they ain't quite old enough for that; and I have heard a saying that no good is got by showing your sores, and 'that which can't be cured must be endured.' You see, I have to work more hours a week than niggers in the West Indies were ever made to do. Compared with other working men, I do nearly two days' work in one. This I have done for these sixteen years, and very little I've seen of my family and home. I often feel that I am getting used up, and think of a saying a foreman of mine had for men who asked for a day off the box: 'Rest indeed! rest in the grave, that will do for you.'"
This reply was given in a tone of despair which stopped the conversation for the short time required to reach the end of the journey. The parting word of "Good night, coachman," evidently helped him to regain his usual cheerfulness, as we heard the shake of the reins and the usual utterance, "All right, Sally; come, get on, Polly."
With us, cheerfulness was not so easily regained. The happy home and family joys seemed to deepen rather than remove the impression made by the driver. "It is now after ten," we thought, "and the poor fellow has another journey to the City and back. On the box again at eight in the morning until midnight, with little prospect of a Sunday; well, we will speak to him upon that subject."