The correct coachman had played a trick upon the street urchins. After he had sat for a time as straight and impassive as a taper of wax, he guided the fat horses, step by step, to a wider place in the street which could not have been noticed by any one except the trained eye of the correct coachman. A crowd of ragged gamins surrounded him and tried to frighten the fat horses, but the spirit of the correct coachman had become their spirit.
After he had sat there calmly for a while, he saw a little irregular space, made by two opposing stairways. Slowly he guided the horses here and made a turn, so sharp, so crisp, that it seemed as if the frail trap must be crushed between the masonry, but so accurately, that scarcely an inch intervened on either side. Now he was sitting again as straight as a taper of wax. But he was treasuring in his mind the number of the policeman, who had seen him make the turn, so he could have some one to refer to when he told the incident at home in the stable.
The Superintendent helped Mrs. Warden into the trap. She begged him to call the next day.
“Lawyer Abel,” she called to the coachman, and the carriage rolled on. The farther she went from the poor quarter, the smoother and swifter the carriage moved. When they entered the residence section, the fat horses lifted their heads gladly to breathe the good air, that came across the gardens. And the correct coachman, without any visible reason cracked his whip three times.
How could one expect that such degenerate people
