Sometimes, however, a taxi-driver, breaking free from this bondage, answers a hail; but even then all is not necessarily easy.  This is the kind of thing:—­

You.  I want to go to Bedford Gardens.

The Sunbeam (indignantly).  Where’s that?

You.  In Kensington.

The Sunbeam.  That’s too far.  I’ve got another job at half-past four (or My petrol’s run out).

You.  If I gave you an extra shilling could you just manage it?

The Sunbeam (scowling).  All right.  Jump in.

This that follows also happens so frequently as to be practically the rule and not the exception:—­

You. 12, Lexham Gardens.

The Sunbeam. 12, Leicester Gardens.

You.  No; LEXHAM.

The Sunbeam. 12, Lexham Road?

You (shouting).  No; Lexham GARDENS!

The Sunbeam.  What number?

You.  TWELVE!

To illustrate the power that the taxi-driver has been wielding over London during the past week or so of mitigated festivity, let me tell a true story.  I was in a cab with my old friend Mark, one of the most ferocious sticklers for efficiency in underlings who ever sent for the manager.  His maledictions on bad waiters have led to the compulsory re-decorating of half the restaurants of London months before their time, simply by discolouring the walls with their intensity.  Well, after immense difficulty, Mark and I, bound for the West, induced a driver to accept us as his fare, and took our places inside.

“He looks a decent capable fellow,” said Mark, who prides himself on his skill in physiognomy.  “We ought to be there in a quarter of an hour.”

But we did not start.  First the engine was cold.  Then, that having consented and the flag being lowered, a fellow-driver asked our man to help him with his tail-light.  He did so with the utmost friendliness and deliberation.  Then they both went to the back of our cab to see how our tail-light was doing, and talked about tail-lights together, and how easy it was to jolt them out, and how difficult it was to know whether they had been jolted out or not, and how jolly careful one had to be nowadays with so many blooming regulations and restrictions and things.

Meanwhile Mark was becoming purple with suppressed rage, for the clock was ticking and all this wasted time should, in a decently-managed world, have belonged to us.  But he dared not let himself go.  It was a pitiful sight—­this strong man repressing impulse.  At any moment I expected to see him dash his arm through the window and tell the driver what he thought of him; but he did not.  He did nothing; but I could hear his blood boil.