“Not it, man,” yelled Hastings; “it’s mine; jump in,” and, without a murmur, the worthy man obeyed.
“Where to, master?” was the next inquiry. “I be going for a load of gravel to Scotland Yard.” And within half an hour four bucks with white ties were shovelling in gravel as if their lives depended on it.
Scotland Yard in those days was a public gravel-pit, and its name did not convey the painful suggestions of after years.
“Where now, master?” inquired the yokel again, and St. John’s Wood was the order.
Here, before a palatial mansion, the cart pulled up, and the load was shot on to the steps. Johnny MacNair, the handsomest man in the Highland Brigade, who was too “exhausted” to be moved, was then pushed into the hall, and the cortège again departed.
To describe further would be a physical impossibility. Exhausted nature, bad wine, possibly the bacon and eggs, all combined to make memory a blank. Suffice that the house was the private residence of a corpulent ratepayer and respected member of St. Stephen’s Church, who appeared in the “Court Directory” as Mrs. Hamilton.
The final episode was the appearance of Johnny MacNair at Rawling’s Hotel at three in the afternoon very irate, and only appeased on being assured that the episode was a blank to others beside himself.
People may say how scandalous all this reads, and how thankful we ought to be to be living in these decorous twentieth century days! But reflect, virtuous reader. The sixties, if apparently bad, were not so bad as the days of the Georges, which again compare favourably with the golden days when Charles (of blessed memory) was King. Vigilance societies did not then exist as now, and fifty institutions with their secretaries and staff had not to be supported by seekers after morality. London was not even blessed with a County Council, and John Burns probably could have robbed a birds’ nest as deftly as the veriest scapegrace in those long-ago roystering days.
Place a file of the Divorce Court proceedings in the scales, add the scandals that occasionally get into print, and, having adjusted them carefully, decide honestly whether the balance is much against the London of the long-ago sixties.