“Will ye wait a minute, Mr. Durrett, sir?” implored the cabdriver. “You'll be after ruining me cab entirely.” (Loud roars and vigorous resistance from the obelisk, the cab rocking violently.) “This gintleman” (meaning me) “will have him by the head, and I'll get hold of his feet, sir.” Which he did, after a severe kick in the stomach.
“Head'sh all right, Martin.”
“To be sure it is, Mr. Peters. Now will ye rest aisy awhile, sir?”
“I'm axphyxiated,” cried another voice from the darkness, the mined voice of Jerome Kyme, our classmate.
“Get the tackles under him!” came forth in commanding tones from Conybear.
In the meantime many windows had been raised and much gratuitous advice was being given. The three occupants of the cab's seat who had previously clamoured for Mr. Peters' removal, now inconsistently resisted it; suddenly he came out with a jerk, and we had him fairly upright on the pavement minus a collar and tie and the buttons of his evening waistcoat. Those who remained in the cab engaged in a riotous game of hunt the slipper, while Tom peered into the dark interior, observing gravely the progress of the sport. First flew out an overcoat and a much-battered hat, finally the pumps, all of which in due time were adjusted to his person, and I started home with him, with much parting counsel from the other three.
“Whereinell were you, Hughie?” he inquired. “Hunted all over for you. Had a sousin' good time. Went to Babcock's—had champagne—then to see Babesh in—th'—Woods. Ham knows one of the Babesh had supper with four of 'em. Nice Babesh!”
“For heaven's sake don't step on me again!” I cried.
“Sh'poloshize, old man. But y'know I'm William Shakespheare. C'n do what I damplease.” He halted in the middle of the street and recited dramatically:—
“'Not marble, nor th' gilded monuments
Of prinches sh'll outlive m' powerful rhyme.'”