men were cleaning the road with water from a long hose. The swishing
of the torrent on the parched wood was musical.
Just beyond the gate of Hyde Park, to the right of the road, stands
a cabmen's shelter. Conversation and emotion had made Lord Dreever
thirsty. He suggested coffee as a suitable conclusion to the night's
revels.
'I often go in here when I'm up in town,' he said. 'The cabbies
don't mind. They're sportsmen.'
The shelter was nearly full when they opened the door. It was very
warm inside. A cabman gets so much fresh air in the exercise of his
professional duties that he is apt to avoid it in private life. The
air was heavy with conflicting scents. Fried onions seemed to be
having the best of the struggle for the moment, though plug tobacco
competed gallantly. A keenly analytical nose might also have
detected the presence of steak and coffee.
A dispute seemed to be in progress as they entered.
'You don't wish you was in Russher,' said a voice.
'Yus, I do wish I wos in Russher,' retorted a shriveled mummy of a
cabman, who was blowing patiently at a saucerful of coffee.
'Why do you wish you was in Russher?' asked the interlocutor,
introducing a Massa Bones and Massa Johnsing touch into the
dialogue.
'Because yer can wade over yer knees in bla-a-a-ad there,' said the
mummy.
'In wot?'
'In bla-a-ad--ruddy bla-a-ad! That's why I wish I wos in Russher.'
'Cheery cove that,' said Lord Dreever. 'I say, can you give us some
coffee?'
'I might try Russia instead of Japan,' said Jimmy, meditatively.
The lethal liquid was brought. Conversation began again. Other
experts gave their views on the internal affairs of Russia. Jimmy
would have enjoyed it more if he had been less sleepy. His back was
wedged comfortably against the wall of the shelter, and the heat of
the room stole into his brain. The voices of the disputants grew
fainter and fainter.
He had almost dozed off when a new voice cut through the murmur and
woke him. It was a voice he knew, and the accent was a familiar
accent.
'Gents! Excuse me.'
He looked up. The mists of sleep shredded away. A ragged youth with
a crop of fiery red hair was standing in the doorway, regarding the
occupants of the shelter with a grin, half-whimsical, half-defiant.
Jimmy recognized him. It was Spike Mullins.
'Excuse me,' said Spike Mullins. 'Is dere any gent in dis bunch of
professional beauts wants to give a poor orphan dat suffers from a
painful toist something to drink? Gents is courteously requested not
to speak all in a crowd.'
'Shet that blanky door,' said the mummy cabman, sourly.
'And 'op it,' added his late opponent. 'We don't want none of your
