Minnie, hearing the door slam violently, ran in alarm to the window.  Down the street a slender man was getting into a cab.  The Bacteriologist, hatless, and in his carpet slippers, was running and gesticulating wildly towards this group.  One slipper came off, but he did not wait for it.  “He has gone mad!” said Minnie; “it’s that horrid science of his”; and, opening the window, would have called after him.  The slender man, suddenly glancing round, seemed struck with the same idea of mental disorder.  He pointed hastily to the Bacteriologist, said something to the cabman, the apron of the cab slammed, the whip swished, the horse’s feet clattered, and in a moment cab, and Bacteriologist hotly in pursuit, had receded up the vista of the roadway and disappeared round the corner.

Minnie remained straining out of the window for a minute.  Then she drew her head back into the room again.  She was dumbfounded.  “Of course he is eccentric,” she meditated.  “But running about London—­in the height of the season, too—­in his socks!” A happy thought struck her.  She hastily put her bonnet on, seized his shoes, went into the hall, took down his hat and light overcoat from the pegs, emerged upon the doorstep, and hailed a cab that opportunely crawled by.  “Drive me up the road and round Havelock Crescent, and see if we can find a gentleman running about in a velveteen coat and no hat.”

“Velveteen coat, ma’am, and no ’at.  Very good, ma’am.”  And the cabman whipped up at once in the most matter-of-fact way, as if he drove to this address every day in his life.

Some few minutes later the little group of cabmen and loafers that collects round the cabmen’s shelter at Haverstock Hill were startled by the passing of a cab with a ginger-coloured screw of a horse, driven furiously.

They were silent as it went by, and then as it receded—­“That’s ’Arry ’Icks.  Wot’s he got?” said the stout gentleman known as Old Tootles.

“He’s a-using his whip, he is, to rights,” said the ostler boy.

“Hullo!” said poor old Tommy Byles; “here’s another bloomin’ loonatic.  Blowed if there aint.”

“It’s old George,” said old Tootles, “and he’s drivin’ a loonatic, as you say.  Aint he a-clawin’ out of the keb?  Wonder if he’s after ’Arry ’Icks?”

The group round the cabmen’s shelter became animated.  Chorus:  “Go it, George!” “It’s a race.”  “You’ll ketch ’em!” “Whip up!”

“She’s a goer, she is!” said the ostler boy.

“Strike me giddy!” cried old Tootles.  “Here! I’m a-goin’ to begin in a minute.  Here’s another comin’.  If all the kebs in Hampstead aint gone mad this morning!”

“It’s a fieldmale this time,” said the ostler boy.

“She’s a followin’ him” said old Tootles.  “Usually the other way about.”

“What’s she got in her ’and?”

“Looks like a ’igh ’at.”

“What a bloomin’ lark it is!  Three to one on old George,” said the ostler boy.  “Nexst!”