have given him a licence, he inquired desperately, if –
The police constable of the locality quieted him by a friendly
glance; then addressing himself to the two women without marked
consideration, said:
“He’s been driving a cab for twenty years. I never knew him to
have an accident.”
“Accident!” shouted the driver in a scornful whisper.
The policeman’s testimony settled it. The modest assemblage of
seven people, mostly under age, dispersed. Winnie followed her
mother into the cab. Stevie climbed on the box. His vacant mouth
and distressed eyes depicted the state of his mind in regard to the
transactions which were taking place. In the narrow streets the
progress of the journey was made sensible to those within by the
near fronts of the houses gliding past slowly and shakily, with a
great rattle and jingling of glass, as if about to collapse behind
the cab; and the infirm horse, with the harness hung over his sharp
backbone flapping very loose about his thighs, appeared to be
dancing mincingly on his toes with infinite patience. Later on, in
the wider space of Whitehall, all visual evidences of motion became
imperceptible. The rattle and jingle of glass went on indefinitely
in front of the long Treasury building – and time itself seemed to
stand still.
At last Winnie observed: “This isn’t a very good horse.”
Her eyes gleamed in the shadow of the cab straight ahead,
immovable. On the box, Stevie shut his vacant mouth first, in
order to ejaculate earnestly: “Don’t.”
The driver, holding high the reins twisted around the hook, took no
notice. Perhaps he had not heard. Stevie’s breast heaved.
“Don’t whip.”
The man turned slowly his bloated and sodden face of many colours
bristling with white hairs. His little red eyes glistened with
moisture. His big lips had a violet tint. They remained closed.
With the dirty back of his whip-hand he rubbed the stubble
sprouting on his enormous chin.
“You mustn’t,” stammered out Stevie violently. “It hurts.”
“Mustn’t whip,” queried the other in a thoughtful whisper, and
immediately whipped. He did this, not because his soul was cruel
and his heart evil, but because he had to earn his fare. And for a
time the walls of St Stephen’s, with its towers and pinnacles,
contemplated in immobility and silence a cab that jingled. It
rolled too, however. But on the bridge there was a commotion.
Stevie suddenly proceeded to get down from the box. There were
shouts on the pavement, people ran forward, the driver pulled up,
whispering curses of indignation and astonishment. Winnie lowered
the window, and put her head out, white as a ghost. In the depths
of the cab, her mother was exclaiming, in tones of anguish: “Is
that boy hurt? Is that boy hurt?”
Stevie was not hurt, he had not even fallen, but excitement as
usual had robbed him of the power of connected speech. He could do
no more than stammer at the window. “Too heavy. Too heavy.”
Winnie put out her hand on to his shoulder.
“Stevie! Get up on the box directly, and don’t try to get down
again.”
“No. No. Walk. Must walk.”
In trying to state the nature of that necessity he stammered
himself into utter incoherence. No physical impossibility stood in
the way of his whim. Stevie could have managed easily to keep pace
with the infirm, dancing horse without getting out of breath. But
his sister withheld her consent decisively. “The idea! Whoever
heard of such a thing! Run after a cab!” Her mother, frightened
and helpless in the depths of the conveyance, entreated: “Oh, don’t
let him, Winnie. He’ll get lost. Don’t let him.”
“Certainly not. What next! Mr Verloc will be sorry to hear of
this nonsense, Stevie, – I can tell you. He won’t be happy at
all.”
The idea of Mr. Verloc’s grief and unhappiness acting as usual
powerfully upon Stevie’s fundamentally docile disposition, he
abandoned all resistance, and climbed up again on the box, with a
face of despair.
The cabby turned at him his enormous and inflamed countenance
truculently. “Don’t you go for trying this silly game again, young
fellow.”
After delivering himself thus in a stern whisper, strained almost