I pooh-poohed both these objections, especially the last, asserting that I was capable of making a map of Western London, if circumstances required it.
Eventually, Mr Smith agreed to my proposal, giving me several hints as to my conduct; I remember one of these being, that I must on no account ply for hire, as it is termed, while driving through the streets, but wait till I was hailed.
The eventful hour arrived in due course, and at nine o’clock I met Mr Smith by appointment in a quiet street in the parish of St James. It was October; and the night being chilly, I wore an overcoat, somewhat the worse for wear, and a wide-awake, which I could slouch over my eyes, if occasion required; for my chief fear was, that I might, by an unlucky chance, be recognised by some of my numerous acquaintances. I mounted the box, and nodding gaily to Mr Smith, left that individual transfixed with wonder that a gentleman of means and position should voluntarily undergo the pains and penalties of a cabman’s life, even for so brief a period as twelve hours.
I have stated that the mare was a thoroughbred, and in doing so I am only recording a literal fact. In the famous days when Andrew Ducrow reigned supreme at Astley’s Theatre, there was a very popular drama which depicted the life of a racehorse through all its vicissitudes, till it found itself in the shafts of a sand-cart. There is an undoubted instance of a horse (Black Tommy, 1857) which only lost the Derby by a short head, figuring subsequently in the shafts of a cab in Camden Town.
For a time I imagined that I was the centre of observation, especially by the cabmen on the ranks. Suddenly I was hailed by a short thick-set man with a very red face, who in an imperious tone shouted ‘Orme Square,’ and plunged into the recesses of my cab. I was floored completely! My boasted knowledge of the topography of the metropolis was at fault. I had never heard of Orme Square. I ventured to ask my fare if he could direct me to the place. His surprise and indignation were so excessive that I feared for a moment he would succumb to a fit of apoplexy. But he relieved himself by a burst of strong language such as I had rarely listened to in my life before. My first impulse was an angry reply, but I fortunately nipped that impulse in the bud. The line of Jerrold the dramatist occurred to me: ‘A rich man feels through his glove, and thinks all things are soft.’ For the first time I realised what a cabman has occasionally to submit to, and what a Janus-headed thing Society was in its intercourse with the rich and the poor. But it is a remarkable fact that although Orme Square is situated in the Bayswater Road, immediately opposite Kensington Gardens, not one Londoner in ten can define its locality. It is a small unpretending square, with three sides only, the fourth side being the great thoroughfare I have mentioned. I excused my ignorance by saying that I was new to the neighbourhood. As I drove along, I placed my present experience to the credit of the much-abused cabby. I received my exact fare, for which I politely thanked my irritable friend, for I was resolved I would do nothing to increase the prejudice existing in so many quarters, against my brother-cabmen, but practise civility under all temptations to the contrary.
I suppose it was about one o’clock, and I was proceeding leisurely along Oxford Street, the ‘stony-hearted step-mother,’ as De Quincey styles it in his immortal work, admiring the effect of the long vista of gas lamps in the deserted street, when I heard a woman’s voice: ‘Are you going Pimlico-way?’ I turned, and beheld two young girls, in gaudy finery and painted cheeks. I replied that my services were at their disposal. I suppose there was something in the words and manner of my answer which created surprise in their minds, for they stared curiously in my face before jumping into the cab.
In a few seconds I was careering along at the rate of ten miles an hour. What a situation for the son of the much-esteemed rector of Cawley-cum-Mortlock! My fares sang snatches of the popular melodies of the day, sometimes as a solo, sometimes as a duet. When we arrived at our destination, they sprang out of the cab and inquired my fare. I replied: ‘Two shillings.’ The countenance of the younger assumed a plaintive expression as she whispered: ‘Give the poor cabby an extra tanner, Loo; I daresay he has a wife and children at home.’
As I did not wish to obtain money under false pretences, I modestly disclaimed the honour of paternity, at the same time pocketing my fare. As I did so, two gentlemen approached, and my feelings of dismay may be imagined when I recognised in one of them Mr Spalland, my father’s curate! There was a gas-lamp close at hand, so that my features must have been plainly discernible. The girls had just bidden me good-night. Observing the look of wonder and horror on Mr Spalland’s features, I boldly took the bull by the horns, and exclaimed: ‘Cab, sir?’
‘The very voice!’ cried the curate. ‘What a marvellous resemblance!’ Then he whispered a few words to his companion, who was a stranger to me.
‘Nonsense!’ came from his lips. ‘The thing is impossible.—What is your name, cabby?’