I was returning from the Newmarket races in England after a very poor day, having failed to back a winner. Arriving at Waterloo station I found it was raining in torrents. Not fancying hansom cabs in that kind of weather I permitted the crowd to rush along the platform in a frantic endeavor to secure a cab, having made up my mind to content myself with a four wheeler. It is not a particularly attractive vehicle (four wheelers are generally in use all night and retain a stuffy and most uncomfortable aroma therefore), but it is safe!

At the station there is an opening of about fifty feet from one platform to another, unsheltered and roofless. I looked across and discovered a solitary cab with an old man holding the ribbons listlessly. The downpour fell about his narrow shoulders which were meagerly protected by the thinnest of rubber covering. After I had shouted several times for him to come over and get me he slowly turned around and replied:—

"You come over here; my beast is a bit weary."

I dug my head into my coat and waded across the street, drenching myself to the skin in that short interval. I quickly opened the cab door, fell upon the damp cushions and gasped, "Carleton Hotel."

"Righto, Governor," came the response from the all but drowned cabby and the vehicle began its weary journey, fairly crawling down Waterloo Hill. Having a very important dinner party on hand and realizing it was late I became somewhat anxious. Leaning out of the window I shouted:—

"My good man, send your horse along. I am in great haste."

"He's doing his level, governor," he replied. "I can't shove him. He's human as we are and besides he's been out all night."

I sank back onto the cushions biting my nails in sheer desperation as the cab moved even more slowly. Again indulging myself in a shower bath from the open window, I looked out and pleaded.

"For heaven's sake, driver, send that horse along; he's simply crawling."

"He's striving 'ard, governor," came back the reply, "but he's no sprinter at his best. I'll get you to the Carleton, never fear."

By this time I was frantic. I opened the door and stood on the step disregarding the rain and shouted:—

"You fool, I'm not going to a funeral."

"Nor me to no bloomin' fire, neither," replied the cabby cheerfully!

Chapter XXXVII