I. Heavyweight turned the scale—with Ulster and travelling-rug—at a trifle over eighteen stone. But cabby had perfect faith in his highly respectable growler, and assured Mr. H. that he would lose no time in getting to "Hewston"!
II. Alas! The uncertainty of the bottoms of growlers. Heavyweight sat down; so did the floor as soon as his feet—and eighteen stone odd—rested on it.
III. It was now a case of horse versus runner. The horse had the best of it so far as weight went. "Woa! woa!" shouted heavyweight. "All right, sir," cried cabby; "I'll go!"
IV. And he did. The louder heavyweight shouted, the faster the mare went. "If this ain't worth another bob!" murmured cabby. The "fare" didn't think so.
V. Heavyweight was positively losing flesh. He had lost his breath five minutes ago. The road claimed him. "What's up?" cried cabby. "Why, blessed if the gent hasn't turned hisself into a 'brake'!"
VI. "Brake!" exclaimed cabby, as he viewed the ruins and saw the remains of his fare rise; "Brake isn't the word. It's smashed it is!" Heavyweight's lanuage was stronger than the cab.
