“Well, get me there as soon as you can,” Kit said; and he stepped in, and the driver shut the two little half-doors, and they set off. Certainly he had never before seen streets so crowded. The driver turned off at the first corner, but even in the side streets he could barely make his way through the crush. On and on they went, turning here and turning there, but everywhere the crowd was the same; and in every street Kit kept his eyes open for a look at the procession, but saw nothing of it. A quarter of an hour passed, a half hour, and still they were dodging through the throng.
Suddenly Kit gave one of his knees a tremendous slap and began to laugh.
“Didn’t they come near doing me for a countryman!” he said to himself. “The Prince of Wales’s mother-in-law, indeed! Why, she was the Queen of Denmark, and must have died before I was born. Anyhow, she wouldn’t be buried in London; and this is no funeral crowd in the streets; it’s all hansoms and ’busses and trucks—the usual London crowd, no doubt. The cabby sees I am a stranger and will get as much out of me as he can.”
At length the hansom drew up in front of No. 32 Fenchurch Street, and Kit stepped out, and handed the driver a shilling.
“Wot’s this for?” cabby asked, pretending to be very much surprised “It’s six shillin’, sir, by the wiy we ’ad to come. Hi ought to say ten, but Hi’m willin’ to make it six.”
“Oh, I guess not,” Kit laughed. “A shilling’s a good big fare for the distance. It’s too bad about the poor Prince of Wales, isn’t it?”
Although cabby had climbed down from his high seat and was assuming a very belligerent look, Kit felt bold to make this mention of the funeral because he saw a big policeman walking slowly toward them on the sidewalk, and he felt sure that the driver would not care to have the question referred to the authorities. And he was right about this; cabby growled a moment about a poor man having to live, but accepted the shilling, and drove away before the officer reached them.
It was surprising how easily and quickly the business was done with the agents. They sent a telegram at once to Captain Griffith, informing him that he was to unload at Gravesend; and in a few minutes Kit was talking with them as freely as if he had been taking cargoes to London for years. He could not help noticing how much easier it was for him now to become acquainted with people than it had been at first. The rough edges were wearing off, and instead of a ship’s boy he was becoming a man of business. It was easier, he found, to manage a cargo in London than in the West Indian ports, because everything was done in a more business-like way; and a cargo of sugar, being all in large parcels, was much easier to handle than a miscellaneous cargo. When he had received all the instructions the agents had to give him about the sugar, he found that a young clerk from the office was to accompany him back to Gravesend to arrange for storing the sugar in a bonded warehouse.
“This is Mr. Watkins, one of our junior clerks,” the head of the firm said. “Mr. Silburn, supercargo of the North Cape, Watkins. You can travel to Gravesend together, as Mr. Watkins has to see the warehousemen.”
Kit was a little surprised at the appearance of his new companion. Mr. Watkins was about his own age, perhaps a trifle older and taller, with rosy cheeks, and a voice that seemed, whenever he spoke, to come up from the very soles of his shoes. He wore a long black frock coat, rubbed a little shiny on the shoulders and elbows, and a shiny high silk hat; and as they went down the stairs together, he drew on a pair of leather-colored kid gloves.