“Everybody’s sorry for you; one would have thought that——­”

He interrupted quietly:  “Sorrow don’t buy bread . . . .  I never had nobody ask me about things before.”  And, slowly moving his long face from side to side, he added:  “Besides, what could people do?  They can’t be expected to support you; and if they started askin’ you questions they’d feel it very awkward.  They know that, I suspect.  Of course, there’s such a lot of us; the hansoms are pretty nigh as bad off as we are.  Well, we’re gettin’ fewer every day, that’s one thing.”

Not knowing whether or no to manifest sympathy with this extinction, we approached the horse.  It was a horse that “stood over” a good deal at the knee, and in the darkness seemed to have innumerable ribs.  And suddenly one of us said:  “Many people want to see nothing but taxis on the streets, if only for the sake of the horses.”

The cabman nodded.

“This old fellow,” he said, “never carried a deal of flesh.  His grub don’t put spirit into him nowadays; it’s not up to much in quality, but he gets enough of it.”

“And you don’t?”

The cabman again took up his whip.

“I don’t suppose,” he said without emotion, “any one could ever find another job for me now.  I’ve been at this too long.  It’ll be the workhouse, if it’s not the other thing.”

And hearing us mutter that it seemed cruel, he smiled for the third time.

“Yes,” he said slowly, “it’s a bit ’ard on us, because we’ve done nothing to deserve it.  But things are like that, so far as I can see.  One thing comes pushin’ out another, and so you go on.  I’ve thought about it—­you get to thinkin’ and worryin’ about the rights o’ things, sittin’ up here all day.  No, I don’t see anything for it.  It’ll soon be the end of us now—­can’t last much longer.  And I don’t know that I’ll be sorry to have done with it.  It’s pretty well broke my spirit.”

“There was a fund got up.”

“Yes, it helped a few of us to learn the motor-drivin’; but what’s the good of that to me, at my time of life?  Sixty, that’s my age; I’m not the only one—­there’s hundreds like me.  We’re not fit for it, that’s the fact; we haven’t got the nerve now.  It’d want a mint of money to help us.  And what you say’s the truth—­people want to see the end of us.  They want the taxis—­our day’s over.  I’m not complaining; you asked me about it yourself.”

And for the third time he raised his whip.

“Tell me what you would have done if you had been given your fare and just sixpence over?”

The cabman stared downward, as though puzzled by that question.

“Done?  Why, nothing.  What could I have done?”

“But you said that it had saved your life.”

“Yes, I said that,” he answered slowly; “I was feelin’ a bit low.  You can’t help it sometimes; it’s the thing comin’ on you, and no way out of it—­that’s what gets over you.  We try not to think about it, as a rule.”