“The Public？” he said， and his voice had in it a faint surprise.
“Well， they all want the taxis. It’s natural. They get aboutfaster in them， and time’s money. I was seven hours beforeI picked you up. And then you was look in for a taxi. Themas take us because they can’t get better， they’re not in a goodtemper， as a rule. And there’s a few old ladies that’s frightenedof the motors， but old ladies aren’t never very free with theirmoney—can’t afford to be， the most of them， I expect.”
“Everybody’s sorry for you； one would have thought that—”
He interrupted quietly： “Sorrow don’t buy bread... I neverhad nobody ask me about things before.” And， slowly movinghis long face from side to side， he added： “Besides， what couldpeople do？ They can’t be expected to support you； and if theystarted asking you questions they’d feel it very awkward.
They know that， I suspect. Of course， there’s such a lot of us；the hansoms are pretty nigh as bad off as we are. Well， we’regetting fewer every day， that’s one thing.”
Not knowing whether or no to manifest sympathy with thisextinction， we approached the horse. It was a horse that “stoodover” a good deal at the knee， and in the darkness seemed tohave innumerable ribs. And suddenly one of us said： “Manypeople want to see nothing but taxis on the streets， if only forthe sake of the horses.”
The cabman nodded.
“This old fellow，” he said， “never carried a deal of flesh. Hisgrub don’t put spirit into him nowadays； it’s not up to much inquality， but he gets enough of it.”
“And you don’t？”
The cabman again took up his whip.
“I don’t suppose，” he said without emotion， “any one couldever find another job for me now. I’ve been at this too long.
It’ll be the workhouse， if it’s not the other thing.”
And hearing us mutter that it seemed cruel， he smiled for thethird time.
“Yes，” he said slowly， “it’s a bit ’ard on us， because we’vedone nothing to deserve it. But things are like that， so far as Ican see. One thing comes pushin’ out another， and so you goon. I’ve thought about it—you get to thinkin’ and worryin’
about the rights o’ things， sittin’ up here all day. No， I don’tsee anything for it. It’ll soon be the end of us now—can’t lastmuch longer. And I don’t know that I’ll be sorry to have donewith it. It’s pretty well broke my spirit.”
“There was a fund got up.”
“Yes， it helped a few of us to learn the motor-drivin’； butwhat’s the good of that to me， at my time of life？ Sixty， that’smy age； I’m not the only one—there’s hundreds like me. We’renot fit for it， that’s the fact； we haven’t got the nerve now.
It’d want a mint of money to help us. And what you say’s thetruth—people want to see the end of us. They want the taxis—our day’s over. I’m not complaining； you asked me about ityourself.”
And for the third time he raised his whip.
“Tell me what you would have done if you had been givenyour fare and just sixpence over？”
The cabman stared downward， as though puzzled by thatquestion.
“Done？ Why， nothing. What could I have done？”
“But you said that it had saved your life.”
“Yes， I said that，” he answered slowly； “I was feelin’ a bitlow. You can’t help it sometimes； it’s the thing comin’ on you，and no way out of it—that’s what gets over you. We try not tothink about it， as a rule.”
And this time， with a “Thank you， kindly！” he touched hishorse’s flank with the whip. Like a thing aroused from sleepthe forgotten creature started and began to draw the cabmanaway from us. Very slowly they travelled down the roadamong the shadows of the trees broken by lamplight. Aboveus， white ships of cloud were sailing rapidly across the darkriver of sky on the wind which smelled of change. And， afterthe cab was lost to sight， that wind still brought to us the dyingsound of the slow wheels.
