In the street, he remembered that he had forgotten to ask Lizzie to
tell him how to find Fleet Street, but her capacity for conversation
prevented him from returning to the house to ask her. The number of
trams and 'buses of different colours bewildered him, as he stood
opposite to the White Horse, and watched them go by: and the accents of
the conductors, when they called out their destinations, were
unintelligible to him. He heard a man shouting "Beng, Beng, Beng, Beng,
Beng, BENGK!" in a voice that sounded like a quick-firing gun, but the
noise had no meaning for him. He saw names of places that were familiar
to him through his reading or his talk with Uncle Matthew, painted on
the side of the trams and buses, but he could not see the name of Fleet
Street among them. He turned to a policeman and asked for advice, and
the policeman put him in the care of a 'bus-conductor.
"You 'op on top, an' I'll tell you where to git off," the 'bus
conductor said, and John did as he was bid.
He took a seat in the front of the 'bus, just behind the driver, for he
had often heard stories of the witty sayings of London 'busmen and he
was anxious to hear a 'bus-driver's wit being uttered.
"That's a nice day," he said, when the 'bus had gone some distance.
The driver, red-faced, obese and sleepy-eyed, slowly turned and
regarded John, and having done so, nodded his head, and turned away
again.
"Nice pair of horses you have," John continued affably.
"Yes," the driver grunted, without looking around.
John felt dashed by the morose manner of the driver and he remained
silent for a few moments, but he leant forward again and said, "I
expect you see a good deal of life on this 'bus?"
"Eih?" said the driver, glancing sharply at him. "Wot you sy?"
"I suppose you've seen a good many queer things from that seat?" John
answered.
"'Ow you mean ... queer things?"
"Well, strange things!..."
The driver turned away and whipped up the horses.
"I've never seen anythink strynge in my life," he said. "Kimmup there!
Kimmup!..."
"But I thought that 'bus-drivers always saw romantic things!"
"I dunno wot you're talkin' abaht. Look 'ere, young feller, are you a
reporter, or wot are you?"
"A reporter!"
"Yus. One of these 'ere noospyper chaps?"
"No."
"Well, anybody'd think you was, you ast so many questions!"
John's face coloured. "I beg your pardon," he said in confusion. "I
didn't mean to be inquisitive!"
"That's awright. No need to 'pologise. I can see you down't mean no
'arm!" His manner relaxed a little, as if he would atone to John for
his former surliness. "That's the 'Orns," he said, pointing to a large
public-house. "Well-known 'ouse, that is. Best known 'ouse in Sahth
London, that is. Bert ... that's the conductor ... 'e says the White
'Orse at Brixton is better-known, an' I know a chep wot says the
Elephant an' Castle is!..."
"It's mentioned in Shakespeare," John eagerly interrupted.
"Wot is?"
"The Elephant and Castle. In _Twelfth Night_. My Uncle, who knew
Shakespeare by heart, told me about it. It was a public-house in those
days, too. But I never heard of the Horns!"
The 'bus-driver was impressed by this statement, but he would not
lightly yield in the argument. "Of course," he said, "The Elephant my
'ave been well-known in them dys, and I don't sy it ain't well-known in
these dys, but I do sy thet it ain't so well-known now as wot the 'Orns
is. There ain't a music-'all chep in London wot down't know the 'Orns.
Not one!"
"Shakespeare didn't know it," John exclaimed.
"Well, 'e didn't know everythink did 'e?" the driver retorted. "P'raps
the 'Orns wasn't built then. I dessay not. 'E'd 'ave mentioned it if
'e'd 'ave known abaht it. All these actor cheps know it, so of course
'e'd 'a' known abaht it, too. We'll be at the Elephant presently. I
always sy to Bert we 'ave the most interestin' pubs in London on this
route, White 'Orse, the 'Orns, the Elephant an' the Ayngel. Ever 'eard
of the Ayngel at Islington?"
"Yes," said John, "That's where Paine wrote _The Rights of Man_."
"Did 'e?" the driver answered. "Well, I dessay 'e did. It's a
celebrated 'ouse, it is. Celebrated in 'istory. There's a song abaht
it. You know it, down't you!...
Up and dahn the City Rowd,
In at the Ayngel...
Thet's the wy the money gows,
Pop gows the weasel.