“All right, sir. Tell me when you want to stop.”
“I want to stop about three hundred yards this side of the Zoological Gardens. There’s a copse that comes close to the road. Pull up alongside of it; and stay there till I return to you.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” responded the driver, who, having received a sovereign in advance, was dead-bent on obedience. “Anything else I can do for your honour?”
“All I want of you is, if you hear any interference on the part of his driver, you might leave your horse for a little—just to see fair play.”
“Trust me, your honour! Don’t trouble yourself about that. I’ll take care of him?”
If there be any chivalry in a London cabman, it is to be found in the driver of a hansom—especially after having received a sovereign with the prospect of earning another. This was well-known to his “fare” with the craped face.
On reaching the described copse the leading cab was pulled up—its passenger leaping instantly out, and gliding in under the trees.
Almost at the same instant, its pursuer came to a stand—somewhat to the surprise of him who sate inside it.
“They’ve stopped, sir,” said the driver, whispering down through the trap.
“I see that, damn them! What can it be for?”