I need hardly say it was not long before Charlie and the driver were on confidential terms. The boy duly produced first me and then his six-bladed knife to the admiring eyes of his new companion, insisting on his taking both into his hands, and demanding his candid opinion on their merits.
Presently a wholly new idea seemed to strike him.
“I say, driver, what’s your name?”
“Jim, if you want to know,” replied that public servant.
“Well, Jim, I wish you’d just get inside and look after the luggage, and let me drive; will you?”
The man opened his eyes and his mouth at the proposition, and then bursting out laughing.
“Hark at him!” he exclaimed; “did you ever hear the like? Me get inside and let a young shaver like him drive me—ho! ho!”
“Come along, Jim; I know the way; and it would be a lark. Come on, dear Jim.”
And the boy got quite affectionate in his eagerness.
“Dear Jim,” who was one of those easy-going men who don’t take much persuading when they’re approached the right way, at length consented to hand over the reins to Charlie; and after waiting some time to see for himself that the boy could really manage, after a fashion, to drive the horse, he further gratified him by descending from the box, and leaving him in sole possession of the coveted position.