"Call me a cab."
"Hansom, sir?"
"No! four-wheeler. And this luggage; get down stairs soon as possible."
His impediments are all in travelling trim--but a few necessary articles
having been unpacked, and a shilling tossed upon the strapped
portmanteau ensures it, with the lot, speedy descent down the lift.
A single pipe of Mr Trafford's silver whistle brings a cab to the
Langham entrance in twenty seconds time; and in twenty more a
traveller's luggage however heavy is slung to the top, with the lighter
articles stowed inside.
His departure so accelerated, Captain Ryecroft--who had already settled
his bill--is soon seated in the cab, and carried off.
But despatch ends on leaving the Langham. The cab being a four-wheeler
crawls along like a tortoise. Fortunately for the fare he is in no
haste now; instead will be too early for the Folkestone train. He only
wanted to get away from the scene of that ceremony, so disagreeably
suggestive.
Shut up, imprisoned, in the plush-lined vehicle, shabby, and not over
clean, he endeavours to beguile time by gazing out at the shop windows.
The hour is too early for Regent Street promenaders. Some distraction,
if not amusement, he derives from his "cabby's" arms; these working to
and fro as if the man were rowing a boat. In burlesque it reminds him
of the Wye, and his waterman Wingate!
But just then something else recalls the western river, not ludicrously,
but with another twinge of pain. The cab is passing through Leicester
Square, one of the lungs of London, long diseased, and in process of
being doctored. It is beset with hoardings, plastered against which are
huge posters of the advertising kind. Several of them catch the eye of
Captain Ryecroft, but only one holds it, causing him the sensation
described. It is the announcement of a grand concert to be given at the
St. James's Hall, for some charitable purpose of Welsh speciality.
Programme with list of performers. At their head in largest lettering
the queen of the eisteddfod:--
Edith Wynne!
To him in the cab now a name of galling reminiscence, notwithstanding
the difference of orthography. It seems like a Nemesis pursuing him!
He grasps the leathern strap, and letting down the ill-fitting sash with
a clatter, cries out to the cabman,--
"Drive on, Jarvey, or I'll be late for my train! A shilling extra for
time."
If cabby's arms sparred slowly before, they now work as though he were
engaged in catching flies; and with their quickened action, aided by
several cuts of a thick-thonged whip, the Rosinante goes rattling
through the narrow defile of Heming's Row, down King William Street, and
across the Strand into the Charing Cross station.
Volume Two, Chapter XIX.