"High!" I exclaimed.
"Yes, high," he repeated. "You see, my duty is to visit the garages all over London before the cabs go out and see that the windows won't work. If they do work I disarrange them. That's my job."
"But why?" I gasped.
"Haven't you noticed how much worse they have been lately, and that, when you take a cab off the rank, the windows are always down when you get in, however bad the weather?"
"Yes," I said, "Everyone must have noticed it."
"Well," he continued, "that's my doing. That's my job."
"But why?" I repeated.
"Just a part of the general scheme of getting the War into people's minds," he said. "The darkening of London, the closing of the public-houses, the defective cab windows—they're all of a piece. Only the cab-window trick is the most useful."
"How?" I asked.
"Well, it hardens you," he said. "It accustoms you to cold and wet, and that's all to the good."