"
"How much?" he asked.
"Five bob," said I, feeling that he could not grasp a larger amount.
"Humph!" he ejaculated. "I'd rather drive a cab--as I used to."
"Ah?" said I. "That's what you were, eh? A cab-driver. Takes a
mighty mind to be that, eh? Splendid intellectual effort to drive a
cab from the Reform Club to the Bank, eh?"
I had hoped to wither him.
"Oh, I don't know," he answered, suavely. "I'll tell you this,
though: I'd rather go from the Club to the Bank on my hansom with me
holding the reins than try to do it with Mr. Gladstone or the Prince
o' Wiles on the box."
"Prince o' Wiles?" I said, with a withering manner.
"That's what I said," he retorted. "You would call him Prince of
Whales, I suppose--like a Yank, a blooming Yank--because you think
Britannia rules the waves."
I had to laugh; and then a plan of conciliation suggested itself. I
would jolly him, as my political friends have it.
"Have a drink?" I asked.
"No, thanks; I don't indulge," he replied. "Let me offer you a
cigar."
I accepted, and he extracted a very fair-looking weed from his box,
which he handed me. I tried to bite off the end, succeeding only in
biting my tongue, whereat the presence roared with laughter.
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