George had been educated at Lawrenceville and Harvard, and had subsequently had the privilege of mixing socially with many of New York’s most prominent theatrical managers; so he knew how to behave himself.  No Vere de Vere could have exhibited greater repose of manner.

“And what,” he inquired suavely, leaning a little further out of the cab, “is eating you, Bill?”

A messenger boy, two shabby men engaged in non-essential industries, and a shop girl paused to observe the scene.  Time was not of the essence to these confirmed sightseers.  The shop girl was late already, so it didn’t matter if she was any later; the messenger boy had nothing on hand except a message marked “Important:  Rush”; and as for the two shabby men, their only immediate plans consisted of a vague intention of getting to some public house and leaning against the wall; so George’s time was their time.  One of the pair put his head on one side and said:  “What ho!”; the other picked up a cigar stub from the gutter and began to smoke.

“A young lady just got into your cab,” said the stout young man.

“Surely not?” said George.

“What the devil do you mean—­surely not?”

“I’ve been in the cab all the time, and I should have noticed it.”

At this juncture the block in the traffic was relieved, and the cab bowled smartly on for some fifty yards when it was again halted.  George, protruding from the window like a snail, was entertained by the spectacle of the pursuit.  The hunt was up.  Short of throwing his head up and baying, the stout young man behaved exactly as a bloodhound in similar circumstances would have conducted itself.  He broke into a jerky gallop, attended by his self-appointed associates; and, considering that the young man was so stout, that the messenger boy considered it unprofessional to hurry, that the shop girl had doubts as to whether sprinting was quite ladylike, and that the two Bohemians were moving at a quicker gait than a shuffle for the first occasion in eleven years, the cavalcade made good time.  The cab was still stationary when they arrived in a body.

“Here he is, guv’nor,” said the messenger boy, removing a bead of perspiration with the rush message.

“Here he is, guv’nor,” said the non-smoking Bohemian.  “What oh!”

“Here I am!” agreed George affably.  “And what can I do for you?”

The smoker spat appreciatively at a passing dog.  The point seemed to him well taken.  Not for many a day had he so enjoyed himself.  In an arid world containing too few goes of gin and too many policemen, a world in which the poor were oppressed and could seldom even enjoy a quiet cigar without having their fingers trodden upon, he found himself for the moment contented, happy, and expectant.  This looked like a row between toffs, and of all things which most intrigued him a row between toffs ranked highest.

“R!” he said approvingly.  “Now you’re torkin’!”