By John Galsworthy
Coming out of the theatre， we found it utterly impossibleto get a taxicab； and， though it was raining slightly， walkedthrough Leicester Square in the hope of picking one up asit returned down Piccadilly. Numbers of hansoms and fourwheelerspassed， or stood by the curb， hailing us feebly， ornot even attempting to attract our attention， but every taxiseemed to have its load. At Piccadilly Circus， losing patience，we beckoned to a four-wheeler and resigned ourselves to along， slow journey. A sou’-westerly air blew through the openwindows， and there was in it the scent of change， that wetscent which visits even the hearts of towns and inspires thewatcher of their myriad activities with thought of the restlessForce that forever cries： “On， on！” But gradually the steadypatter of the horse’s hoofs， the rattling of the windows， theslow thudding of the wheels， pressed on us so drowsily thatwhen， at last， we reached home we were more than half asleep.
The fare was two shillings， and， standing in the lamplight tomake sure the coin was a half-crown before handing it to thedriver， we happened to look up. This cabman appeared to bea man of about sixty， with a long， thin face， whose chin anddrooping grey moustaches seemed in permanent repose on theup-turned collar of his old blue overcoat. But the remarkablefeatures of his face were the two furrows down his cheeks，so deep and hollow that it seemed as though that face were acollection of bones without coherent flesh， among which theeyes were sunk back so far that they had lost their lustre. Hesat quite motionless， gazing at the tail of his horse. And， almostunconsciously， one added the rest of one’s silver to that halfcrown.
He took the coins without speaking； but， as we wereturning into the garden gate， we heard him say：
“Thank you； you’ve saved my life.”
Not knowing， either of us， what to reply to such a curiousspeech， we closed the gate again and came back to the cab.
“Are things very bad？”
“They are，” replied the cabman. “It’s done with—is this job.
We’re not wanted now.” And， taking up his whip， he preparedto drive away.
“How long have they been as bad as this？”
The cabman dropped his hand again， as though glad to restit， and answered incoherently：
“Thirty-five year I’ve been drivin’ a cab.”
And， sunk again in contemplation of his horse’s tail， hecould only be roused by many questions to express himself，having， as it seemed， no knowledge of the habit.
“I don’t blame the taxis， I don’t blame nobody. It’s come onus， that’s what it has. I left the wife this morning with nothingin the house. She was saying to me only yesterday： ‘What haveyou brought home the last four months？’ ‘Put it at six shillingsa week，’ I said. ‘No，’ she said， ‘seven.’ Well， that’s right—sheenters it all down in her book.”
“You are really going short of food？”
The cabman smiled； and that smile between those two deephollows was surely as strange as ever shone on a human face.
“You may say that，” he said. “Well， what does it amount to？
Before I picked you up， I had one eighteen-penny fare to-day；and yesterday I took five shillings. And I’ve got seven bob aday to pay for the cab， and that’s low， too. There’s many andmany a proprietor that’s broke and gone—every bit as bad asus. They let us down as easy as ever they can； you can’t getblood from a stone， can you？” Once again he smiled. “I’msorry for them， too， and I’m sorry for the horses， though theycome out best of the three of us， I do believe.”
One of us muttered something about the Public.
The cabman turned his face and stared down through thedarkness.
