"Don't blow us up, Sir. I ain't got no licence to carry hexplosives," I sez with a titter.
"Young 'uns a-waiting at Tooting," 'e sez; "so drive sharp, and I won't be too tight on the pocket;
I do like a good firework frolic, with boys, though I blew this heye out—as a boy—with a rocket."
"Plucky old cock, and most pleasant!" thinks I, tooling off at full trot with old Brock. "Here's a barney!"
But I was a mossel too previous this time, as I jolly well found when arf way through my journey.
Just this side o' Balham the fog grew—well black! There ain't no other word for it. Black as Thames banks are,
And thick as their mud. It you arsk where we got, you carn't know what a London Pertikler's queer pranks are.
We got everywhere save to Tooting, I fancy. Slap on to a common, bang into a river,
Or something dashed like it; I stuck to the box till my fingers were ice and my spine all a-shiver;
Then took out my lamp, and led Molly a mile or so. 'Twasn't no good. We pulled up in a medder,