THE REASON.
He was a saturnine-looking man with a distinctly anti-social suggestion; but after a while he began to talk. We discussed one thing and another, and casually he remarked that he was connected with the motor industry—as indeed all men whom one cannot immediately place now are.
He did not build cars, he said, or design them, or sell them. What then did he do?
"My task is a peculiar one," he said, "and you might never guess it. It is wholly concerned with taxi-cabs. I am an inspector of taxi-cab windows."
He looked at me as with a challenge.
"It is your duty," I inquired, with a horrible feeling that I could not congratulate him on his efficiency, "to inspect the windows and see that they are in good order?"
"To inspect the windows—yes," he replied; "but not for the purpose you name."
"Then why inspect them?" I asked warmly. "What is wanted is some one to see that the wretched things can be manipulated. I would bet that out of every ten cabs I am in not more than two have windows that will work."
"Two!" he mused. "That's a very high percentage. I must see to that."