At three o’clock he changed his clothes for an immaculate morning-coat and grey trousers; then, remembering what Esther had said about the very horrid boarding-house, he changed them again for the oldest tweed suit in his possession, and a pair of brown boots that had seen their best days and long since been condemned by Driver.
“How in the world do I get to Brixton?” Micky asked the man when he was ready. “I know I could take a taxicab, but I don’t want to. What other ways are there?”
Driver told him.
“There’s the train, sir, or a tram.”
Micky jumped at the tramcar. He was sure that people who lived in Brixton must all use tramcars.
“How long would a tramcar take?” he asked.
Driver considered. Finally he said that he thought it might be the best part of an hour.
Micky glanced at the clock. It was already a quarter past three. He took up his hat hurriedly and went out into the street.
A taxicab would have to do for to-day anyway. He could dismiss it at the corner of the road and walk the last few yards. A moment later he was being whirled through the streets.