Mr. Grace rose by stealth. Dawn had not yet broken. He groped his way into his clothes in the darkness; he did not dare to light the gas. Clutching his boots against his breast, with ridiculous caution for so fat a man, he tiptoed down the stairs. In the passage he listened and looked up, half expecting to see a head in curl-papers surveying him from across the banisters. He heaved a sigh of relief. That fine bass sound, like a trombone thrust out violently to its full length, was his son-in-law, the ex-policeman; those flute-like notes, tremulous and heart-stirrings were his daughter’s musical contributions from dreamland. All was well. He had not roused them.

In the stable he stuffed up the window with a sack and lit a lamp. Cat’s Meat raised his head and winked at him—winked at him solemnly. It was a solemn occasion—they both felt it, this setting of a daughter at defiance, while horse and master went on the bust.

The preliminary preparations of the past few days had awakened suspicion. For one thing, Mr. Grace had repainted his cab: the wheels were a bright mustard and the body was a deep blue—the color which is usually associated with Oxford. For years—too many to count—Cat’s Meat’s harness had done service, tied together with bits of rope and string where the leather had worn out. But to-day his harness was brand new—of a vivid tan. Yesterday, and the day before, Cat’s Meat and his master had indulged in a rest—that alone gave material for conjecture. Grace and her ex-policeman had conjectured. What was the old boy planning? Was he contemplating marriage? “And at his time o’ life!” they said scornfully. At any rate, they were snoring now.

As he led Cat’s Meat out, he growled in his ear, “Not a drop o’ drink, old hoss, till this here is h’ended. And then—-.” He smacked his lips; the lean tail flirted across the bony haunches in assent. Mr. Grace rubbed the nose of his friend, “Go by h’every pub till h’it’s h’ended, old pal, and then——. Understand?”

He had harnessed up and was tying the last of the blue rosettes to Cat’s Meat’s bridle, when he was startled by a window flung up. He glanced round—the curl-papers he dreaded!

“Now, then, father, you just come up ‘ere and tell me. You just——.”

“Be blowed if h’I will.”

The curl-papers vanished; feet were coming down the stairs. Scrambling on to his box, he jerked at the reins and lumbered out into the cold March dusk. A shrill voice calling! She was in the stable, coming down the street after him. What had she on, or rather what hadn’t she? “My word,” he muttered, “wot a persistent hussy!” He cracked his whip. Cat’s Meat broke into a stiff-kneed gallop.

At a cabman’s shelter near Trafalgar Square he halted for breakfast. The glory of his appearance attracted attention. “’Ere comes Elijah in ‘is bloomin’ chariot.”

“Wot-ho, old mustard-pot! ‘Ot stuff!”

Mr. Grace conducted himself with gravity. “I’m h’off ter the races. Got a friend o’ mine rowin’.”

“Oh, you ‘ave, ‘ave yer? A reg’lar Sol Joel, that’s wot you are.”

He left his friends with a flourish. It was almost as though his youth had returned—almost as though he hadn’t a red nose and a daughter who tried to convert him. He felt young and smart this blowy morning. He didn’t want to see a reflection of himself; he wanted to pretend that he was a brisk young cabby, when cab-driving was an art and not a creeping means of livelihood. Flower-girls were at the corners, shaking daffodils and violets in the faces of the passing crowd.

“By the Lord Harry——!”

He signed to her with his whip—he felt affluent. He bought two bunches, and leant down from his box while she pinned one in his button-hole. The other he hid beneath the seat in Cat’s Meat’s nose-bag.

“Good luck, me gal—and a ‘andsome ‘usband.”

“The sime ter you, old sport.”

She blew him a kiss. Ah, if he had been young! Not a bad lookin’ gal! Not ‘arf!

He turned into Deane Street and crawled through Soho, that queer Chinese puzzle of cramped dwellings, all with fronts that look like backs. He pulled up outside the second-hand shop and entered with his whip, tied with blue ribbon, held out before him.

“‘Ow’s tride s’mornin’, Mr. Waffles? Get them ‘andker-chiefs, wot you call spats, on ter yer boots. Put a little glue on yer bloomin’ whiskers. ‘Urry up.—Where are we goin’? Yer’ll see presently.”

Ocky expostulated. The fear of Mr. Widow’s displeasure was heavy on him. “But what’ll I tell him? How’ll I explain to him?”

“Tell ‘im yer’ve stroked yer wife’s ‘ead wiv a poker. Tell ‘im she’s packed up sudden for a better land. Tell ‘im yer taikin’ a ‘oliday on the strength of it. Tell ‘im——.”

“Shish! He may hear. He’s sensitive.—All right. I’ll come.”

Mr. Grace had his own code of etiquette. He refused to let Ocky mount on the box beside him. “Ain’t done,” he said. From the nose-bag he produced the button-hole and presented it to his friend. “Git in,” he commanded, opening the door of his cab. Before he drove off he stooped and shouted in at the window, “Matey, this ain’t no bloomin’ funeral. Wriggle a smile on ter yer mouth. Laugh at the color of me bally keb.”

He cocked his hat to a jaunty angle and tugged on the reins, humming;

“Bill Higgs

Useter feed the pigs,

Caress ‘em with ‘is ‘obnail boots,

Tum-tee-tum.”

He couldn’t remember what came next, so he contented himself with whistling the opening bars over and over. He felt exceedingly merry.

Traffic seemed to be pouring all in one direction. Everyone was in high spirits; cabbies and bus-drivers kept up a ceaseless stream of chaff. The thud of hoofs on the wooden paving was the beat of a drum to which London marched. Everything was moving. Overhead white clouds dashed against sky-precipices. Window-boxes were rife with flowers. Parks and green garden patches swam up to cheer the endless procession, stood stationary and fluttered as it passed, then melted. Light blue and dark blue favors showed wherever the eye rested. Newsboys climbed buses shouting, and ran by the side of carriages, distributing their papers. At a halt, Mr. Grace turned and shouted to Ocky, “I sye, old cock, d’yer know where all us sports is goin’? We’re goin’ ter see yer nevvy.—Hi, Cat’s Meat, kum up.”

Houses grew smaller, streets more narrow and old-fashioned. Then the river, broad and full-flowing, like a vein swollen to bursting. On the bridges black specks swarmed like ants. Along the bank crowds stood packed against the parapet. Bets were being offered and taken. Ceaseless banter and laughing. Jostling. Good-natured expostulation. A hat blew off.

Mr. Grace drew up against the curb. From the point which he had selected, by standing on the roof, a glimpse could be obtained of the racing shells. He rattled his whip against the door.

“‘Ere you, Old Bright-and-Early, come h’out.”

Ocky came out—came out twirling his mustaches. He had caught the contagion of excitement. He felt himself to be more than a spectator. He wanted to talk in a loud voice to Mr. Grace, so that bystanders might overhear and know that he was an important person—young Barrington’s uncle. Good heavens, half London had left its work to see just Peter, stroking the Oxford boat against Cambridge.

During the next two hours while they waited, they swopped Peterish stories. “And ‘e sez ter me, ‘Mr. Grice,’ ‘e sez, ‘you’re my prickcaution. I’ve got somethink the matter with me; ‘magination they calls it. I wants you to promise me ter taik care of ‘er,’ ‘e sez. And I, willin’ ter h’oblige ‘im, I sez—.”

Mr. Grace sprang up. “‘Ulloa! Wot’s this? Strike me blind, if they ain’t comin’!”

The box-seat wasn’t high enough. They scrambled on to the roof. The crowd scrambled after them; the roof was thronged, without an inch to spare. Cat’s Meat straightened his forelegs, trying to see above the people’s heads.

“By gosh, they’re leading!”

“No such luck. They’re level.”

Eight men, crouched in a wooden groove as narrow as a pencil, with a ninth in the stern to guide it! The pencil looked so narrow that it was a wonder that it floated. The eight men moved as if by clock-work. Eight more followed, a quarter of a length behind. Their colors were the dark blue of Mr. Grace’s cab. The light blues of Cambridge were ahead.

“Oxford! Oxford! Oxford!” Mr. Grace thumped Ocky in the ribs and bellowed, “There’s Peter. See ‘im?”

As though Peter had heard, he raised the stroke from thirty-four to thirty-six, calling on his men for a spurt. They were creeping up—lifting their boat through the water in a splendid effort. Men swore beneath their breath; they tiptoed and clawed at one another, utterly selfish and careless in their wild desire to gain a clearer view of those distant streaks of energy, which bent forward and swung back mechanically in that gray ribbon of beaten water. They were shooting under the bridge now, police-boats and launches spluttering, hooting and following. The crowd swayed, broke and ran. Men leapt down from lamp-posts and points of vantage.

Something happened. Mr. Grace was pushed from behind—pushed off the roof of his own cab. He picked himself up indignantly from the pavement and tried to clamber back. It mightn’t have been his cab—it was territory invaded and held by intruders. “’Ere you! Git orf of it.”

He laid about him with his whip and clutched at coattails. Someone hit him on the mouth. He hit back. A policeman came up. No time for explaining. He was angry enough to fight the whole world. What was Peter doing?

“Leggo o’ me. It’s me own keb. A free country, indeed! ‘Ere you, come orf of it.”

He battled his way to the box. For one moment he saw two disappearing specks, and then——. A crack! A man was waist-deep in woodwork. The invaders jumped down to save themselves. The policeman hopped into the cab and levered the legs back.

Mr. Grace was purple. “Pushed me orf me keb, that’s wot they did. And now I arsks yer ter h’inspeck that roof. ‘E wuz goin’ to arrest me. Garn, puddin’ face. Yer daren’t.”

“Move along. Move along, me man.”

There was nothing for it. Mr. Grace picked up the reins. “Puddin’ face,” he flung back across his shoulder. “Yes, h’it’s you I’m meamn’. Puddin’ face—yer bally cop.”

It was only when he had turned a corner and climbed down to examine the damage, that he realized that he had lost Mr. Waffles.

He trundled back to London—had got as far as Hyde Park Corner, when a yelling boy rushed by him with a sheaf of papers.

“Hi, wot’s that?”

He snatched one and read:

“Dark Blue Victory.

“Long Stern Chase.

“Barrington’s Great Spurt.

“Cambridge Beaten at the Winning Post.”

What did it matter? What did anything matter, broken roofs or bruised mouths. Peter had done the trick! Peter, the queer little tyke who had been his prickcaution! He shouted the news to Cat’s Meat. He held up the traffic, he and Cat’s Meat, and the dark blue cab. He must tell somebody,—somebody who would understand. Mr. Waffles would understand. He had a few drinks at a few pubs and arrived at Soho hilarious. Mr. Widow informed him that Ocky had not returned. He wandered off in search of the flower-girl. At the back of his mind the belief grew up that she would be sympathetic. He found her, tucked her inside and drove back to Soho. Mr. Widow didn’t approve of the flower-girl and said that Ocky hadn’t come back. How many times did he halt before the second-hand shop? How many pubs had he visited? What had become of little Kiss-me-Quick, the flower-girl? She’d disappeared, and he hadn’t any money in his pockets. Never mind, there was a hole in the roof of his cab—his day’s work had given him something.

Night fell. Stars came out. Did he make up the song himself? Couldn’t have. He found himself again before the second-hand shop, still on the box of his cab. The shop was shut and he was singing to empty windows:

“Oh,

Mr. Widow, though

A murderer you be,

You’re

Sure, a very nice man—

A good enough pal for me.”

Mr. Widow came out, sincerely grieved, and expostulated. Mr. Grace begged his pardon profoundly. He told him that he’d always admired his religious whiskers; wouldn’t hurt his feelings, however many wives he’d murdered; wanted to be friends. He added, in a whisper, that he had a daughter who’d be all the better for a poker brought down smartly across her nut. She was religious, too, only she hadn’t got whiskers. Then he insisted on shaking hands, and was at last allowed to on condition that, if this token of esteem was granted, he would go away and never, never more come back—at least, not till morning.

What to do now? The night was young. A return to the stable was not to be contemplated; that daughter of his must be avoided. Some time, when he was a very old man, he’d go home to her. But not yet. It wasn’t every man who owned a blue and yellow cab with a hole in the roof of it.

Perhaps it was eleven—perhaps earlier. He was in Leicester Square, affording himself the supreme luxury of refusing to be hired. Coming down the steps of the Empire was a group of young men, broad-shouldered, slim of hip and in evening dress. Their arms were linked. As soon as they appeared, cheering began; a crowd gathered round. Someone commenced to sing. Others took it up:

“Mary had a little heart.

She lent it to a feller,

Who swallowed it by h’axerdent

And didn’t dare to tell ‘er.

She asked it back and said she’d sue—

Away the feller ran.

Whatever will poor Mary do?

She’s lost both heart and man.”

They’d all gone mad. Pandemonium broke loose. Mr. Grace wondered vaguely what it meant. Why were people dancing? Why were people shouting? Then he saw that the maddest of the mad wore a dark blue badge. He heard someone explain to a neighbor, “The winning crew.”

His brain cleared. He was off his box in a flash, struggling, panting, fighting his way to that tall young chap who was in the centre. He was wringing him by the hand.

“Why, by all that’s wonderful, it’s Mr. Grace! Where did you spring from?” Before the question was answered, Peter was introducing him, to the Faun Man, to Harry, to Hardcastle, to a host of others.

Mr. Grace was both elated and abashed. “Want a keb? Sime old keb, Mr. Peter—got it ‘ere a-witing for you.”

“Want a cab! I don’t know. You see, there are so many of us.”

“‘Ow many? There’s plenty o’ room, Mr. Peter, both inside and h’out. There ain’t no charge. Put h’as many h’as yer like on the roof, so long as Cat’s Meat can drar yer. I’ve ‘ad a ole cut for yer legs on purpose.”

Harry laughed. “If Cat’s Meat can’t manage it, we’ll shove.”

They piled in uproariously. The suggestion was made that Cat’s Meat should be taken out and that Peter should be allowed to ride him. Mr. Grace wouldn’t hear of it. “None o’ that, young gen’lemen. Cruelty ter h’animiles. The keb ‘olds ‘im h’up.—Where to?”

The Gilded Turtle was mentioned.

For all that there were four on the roof and six inside, Cat’s Meat never made an easier journey—that was due to the singing mob of undergraduates who lent a hand. And Mr. Grace—he reflected that it wasn’t for naught that he had repainted his growler. He was the proudest cabby in London that night—he was going to be prouder.

At the Gilded Turtle he was seated next to Peter and treated as an honored guest. He had a misty impression that the waiters were stowed away beneath tables and that their places were taken by Peter’s friends. He believed and asserted to the day of his death that he made the speech of the evening—something reminiscent about “prick-cautions,” which meandered off into moral reflections about a person named Kiss-Me-Quick and flower-girls in general. He distinctly remembered that, more than once, he turned his pockets inside out, asking plaintively, “What lydy done this?” Then the gentleman whose ears moved like a dog’s sang a nonsense-song about Peter. They all joined in a rousing chorus, clinking glasses:

“He kissed the moon’s dead lips,

He googed the eye of the sun;

But when we’ve crawled to the end of life,

We’ll wonder we ever begun.

CHORUS

“And Peter was his name—

So Peterish was he,

He wept the sun’s eye back again,

Lest he should never see.”

“He fought the pirate king,

Where stars fall down with a thud;

But we, we even quake to hear

Spring rhubarb break into bud.

CHORUS

And Peter was his name, etc.

“He sailed the trackless waste

With hair the colour» of blood;

But we, we tramp the trampled streets

With souls the colour of mud.

“



And Peter was his name—

So Peterish was he,

He wept the sun’s eye back again,

Lest he should never see.”

Where was Peter? Where were Harry and the Faun Man? He was out in the streets—only the wildest of the young bloods remained with him. It didn’t matter to this cab-driving Falstaff if they all went away and only Cat’s Meat stayed, he was going to make a night of it.

Hardcastle was complaining that he’d never been arrested and taken to Vine Street. He insisted that it ought to happen to every English gentleman at least once. They drove back to Leicester Square to see if they could find a policeman who’d make up this deficiency in their education. They found three, only they chose the wrong side of the Square and discovered that they were being taken to a less aristocratic station. Then they explained their mistake, and their captors, being, as the Faun Man would have said, “very human fellows,” accepted compensation for wasted time, called them “My Lords,” and allowed them to escape.

It was Mr. Grace who provided the final entertainment. They had grown a little tired of his constant enquiry as to “What lydy done this?” Being unwilling to lose their esteem as a humorist, he drove them down side streets to a second-hand shop, which he had promised “never no more to visit.”

The house was in complete darkness. He threw down the reins and stood up, his whip clasped against his breast, his eyes lifted to the white moon sailing in silence over sulky chimney-pots. Singing ran in his family; it was from him that Grace inherited her talent. What his voice lacked in sweetness it made up in volume. He startled the stillness lustily:

“Oh,

Mister Widow, though

A murderer you be,

You’re

Sure, a very nice man—

A good enough pal for me.”

If Mr. Widow had been a sportsman, he would have felt flattered that the winning Oxford crew should take the trouble to greet him thus musically at two o’clock in the morning. He wasn’t. A night-capped head appeared at a window. The singing grew more hearty. The head vanished. The street door opened. A gentleman, very hastily attired, carrying a pair of white spats in his hand, shot out on to the pavement. A voice from the darkened shop pursued him, “‘Ad enough of you. A man is known by ‘is friends.”

The door closed as suddenly as it had opened.

Mr. Grace hailed the new arrival, “‘Ulloa, duckie! Been lookin’ for you h’everywhere.”

“I wish you hadn’t,” growled Ocky.

Cat’s Meat shivered in his harness. Mr. Grace, aware that he was somehow in error, picked up the reins. “Well, good night, young gen’lemen. Me and Mr. Waffles is goin’ ‘ome ter bed. Kum up, Cat’s Meat.”

But Cat’s Meat didn’t come up; he lolled between the shafts, listless and dejected. Mr. Grace climbed down from the box to examine him. “Wot’s matter, old pal? Got a ‘eadache?”

He stretched out his hand to pat him. Cat’s Meat shivered again, lolled over a little farther and crashed to the ground. He flickered his eye-lid just once, wearily and reproachfully, saying as plainly as was possible for so dumb an animal, “Old man, we’ve been and gone and done it.”

A hat was passed round. When its contents were presented to Mr. Grace he pushed it away from him. He was sobbing. “H’it’s not that; it ain’t the money. ‘E were the only man ‘as ever understood me. ‘Is h’intellergence wuz a thing to marvel h’at. A wonder of a ‘oss, ‘e were. I’ve often said h’it. ‘E’d bring me ‘ome as drunk as a lord and as saife as a baby. ‘E wuz a reg’lar mother ter me, ‘e were.”

The revelers melted into the night down the shuttered street, leaving Mr. Grace with the disregarded hat of money, the dead horse sprawled across the broken shafts and a gentleman, from whose hand a pair of white spats dangled, contemplating the ruin disconsolately.