R—ss—ll. "WELL, SIR, YOU'LL FIND IT A LONG WAY ROUND."
THE UNPROTECTED FEMALE IN WANT OF A CAB.
Scene.—The Great Western Railway Station on the morning of Wednesday, July 27th. A Train has just arrived, bringing, inter alios et alias, The Unprotected Female, with her usual moderate but miscellaneous accumulation of luggage, consisting of a hair-trunk profusely brass-lettered, and without the slightest lifting appliance in the way of handles; a cubical black box, with a convex top, very apt to give way (like its mistress) on slight provocation, and trusting much for support to a net-work of curiously knotted cordage; an oblong contrivance of wicker-work and oilskin, like a chicken-basket in a tarpaulin overcoat; a flower-pot, with a balsam in full blow; a basket, much too small for its work; four distinct parcels, of respectable dimensions and irregular form, two in brown paper, one in a newspaper, and the fourth securely sewed up in huckaback; a large stone bottle of real mushroom ketchup; a pair of strong shoes, which having obstinately refused to enter the hair-trunk, have been brought up by hand; an aged, but still expansive, carpet-bag, bursting with its contents; a bonnet-box and an umbrella, with a parasol and a camp-stool. As the Scene opens, The Unprotected is discovered in the act of reclaiming and gathering about her, with her usual distractedness, these her goods and chattels, as they are landed from the Luggage-Van, in the midst of a crowd of all ages, sexes, and conditions, occupied in the same way. The Porters have an embarrassed air, and not a Cab is to be seen on the Stand. Sharp-witted Passengers, who have rushed off to secure "first Cab," stand bewildered on the edge of the Platform. Ladies are huddled helplessly together, ruefully surveying their baggage. Indignant individuals are asking questions; and the possession of every inch of room in two fortunate Omnibuses is being fiercely contested, with very little regard to the route about to be taken by these vehicles.
Indignant Gentleman (who has a habit of constituting himself the stern representative of Public Opinion). No Cabs! Halloa!—Stationmaster—Guard—Hi—you Sir—Here; what's the meaning of this?
Station Officer (respectfully, but sadly). Cabs struck, Sir, I'm sorry to say.
Hopeless Lady (who has a happy faculty of seeing the worst at a glance). Oh! I was sure something dreadful would happen.
Indignant Gentleman. Cabs struck? What the devil! eh—d'ye mean to tell me—struck!