‘Here is my ticket, sir,’ I promptly replied. ‘John Smith, Lisson Grove.’
The curate indulged in another prolonged stare, and then they both entered the cab, and I drove them to an address where I was as well known as in my own home. I managed to drive rapidly away as soon as I had deposited the worthy curate and his friend, as I did not wish to undergo the critical examination of the hall porter, who might not have been put off so easily.
At this moment I observed a crimson glow in the sky, which was clearly caused by some conflagration, but evidently at a very considerable distance. Notwithstanding, a man almost insisted on my driving him to the scene of the fire, no matter what might be the distance. This I declined to do, alleging that my horse was tired; and after a volley of objurgations, the fellow departed, making some strong remarks about the independence of cabmen and their large earnings. Up to this time, I had not earned the amount of the hire of the horse and cab. Whether my experience on this point was special or normal, I am unable to judge, but I could easily picture the despair of a cabman who in similar circumstances would have but a gloomy outlook for the morrow. True, there were several hours remaining, and it was impossible to tell what they might produce.
The aspect of a mighty slumbering city at early dawn is a remarkable spectacle. The line of Wordsworth involuntarily recurred to me:
And all that mighty heart is lying still.
London at sunrise was by no means a novel sight to one who had kept ‘early hours’ for some years; but I do not think I was ever so impressed with the sight as I was when perched on that elevated seat at the back of a hansom cab. The first faint streaks of red in the distant east, succeeded by a pale primrose light, and then the gradual dispersal of the midnight gloom, was inexpressibly lovely. The scenes I had witnessed had aroused certain trains of thought, more or less painful, as I beheld the varied fortunes of my fellow-creatures, the struggle for a bare existence, the sins and follies created in a great measure by ‘iron circumstance.’
With the history of my final fare I must conclude this veritable account of my experience as a cab-driver. It was exactly a quarter to six, and I was crawling along Holborn, when a man of gentlemanly appearance and address emerged rapidly from a side-street, and springing into my cab, said: ‘Cabman—Victoria. If you can catch the six o’clock train for Newhaven, I will pay you double fare.’
I glanced at the church clock, and found I had exactly a quarter of an hour to accomplish a distance of nearly three miles. Fortunately, the streets were comparatively empty, and I sent the mare along at a pace of something like twelve miles an hour. Although I had only seen the face of my fare for a couple of seconds, the expression and features are indelibly impressed on my memory. It was a handsome face, but the eyes were more like those of a hunted stag than of a human being. The colour of the face was ashen gray, and I fancied the teeth chattered somewhat as he addressed me. But the last circumstance I attributed to the cold raw October morning. I felt so curious about my fare that I cautiously lifted the small wooden flap in the roof of the cab, and felt almost pleased to behold him imbibing brandy from a flask. One or two policemen peered at the cab as it flew past, apparently undecided whether or not to take cognisance of the excessive speed; but I cared not; I felt as anxious to catch the train for Newhaven as if my life depended on it. At length I sighted Victoria Station. The minute-hand wanted two minutes to six. Passing a half-sovereign through the trap, my fare shouted: ‘Never mind the change!’ and sprang out of the cab.
Involuntarily, I paused to watch the end of the affair. I saw him leave the pay-box with the ticket, and then in half a minute I heard the shriek of the engine, and congratulated myself on having accomplished my task. Ere I could drive from the entrance of the booking-office, another hansom deposited two men, who simultaneously rushed to the booking-office. The horse of the cab was covered with lather, and seemed completely blown. The men appeared again on the pavement with vexation and disappointment plainly written on their features. Suddenly their eyes lighted on the cab which I drove. They advanced, and the shorter man of the two said: ‘Cabman, we are police-officers. Have you just brought any one who was anxious to catch the six o’clock express?’
I had felt certain they were officers of justice. How is it that policemen out of uniform and servants out of livery are always distinguishable? There is a hall-mark, so to say, which stamps them.