A messenger boy, two shabby men engaged in non-essential industries, and a shopgirl paused to observe the scene. Time was not of the essence to these confirmed sightseers. The shopgirl 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 shopgirl 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
