Wasn't I thankful?
'How far?' I said.
'Well—it depends upon which part of it you want. It's a long street. But if you're a stranger you'll never find your way in this fog. Better take a hansom.'
'Thank you,' I said. 'It's only a shilling, I suppose?'
He glanced at me again; he had been turning away. By this time the two children were close beside me. He saw that we belonged to each other.
'A shilling for two—one-and-six for three,' he replied. 'Hansom or four-wheeler,' and then he moved off.
Just then Margaret began to cough, and a new fear struck me. She looked very delicate, and she had had a bad cold. Supposing the fog made her very ill? I was glad the man had spoken of a four-wheeler.
'Stuff your handkerchief or something into your mouth,' I said, 'so as not to get the fog down your throat. I'm going to call a four-wheeler.'
In some ways that dreadful day was not as bad as it might have been. There were scarcely any cabs about, but just then one stopped close to the end of the platform.
'Jump in,' I said, and before the driver had time to make any objection, for I know they do sometimes make a great favour of taking you anywhere in a fog, we were all inside.