The Open Air 



curse, they put their hands to their mouths trumpet 

 wise and bellow at each other, these cabbies, vanmen, 

 busmen, all angry at the block in the narrow way. 

 The 'bus-driver, with London stout, and plenty of it, 

 polishing his round cheeks like the brasswork of a 

 locomotive, his neck well wound and buttressed with 

 thick comforter and collar, heedeth not, but goes on 

 his round, now fast, now slow, always stolid and 

 rubicund, the rain running harmlessly from him as 

 if he were oiled. The conductor, perched like the 

 showman's monkey behind, hops and twists, and 

 turns now on one foot and now on the other as if the 

 plate were red-hot ; now holds on with one hand, and 

 now dexterously shifts his grasp; now shouts to the 

 crowd and waves his hands towards the pavement, 

 and again looks round the edge of the 'bus forwards 

 and curses somebody vehemently. " Near side up! 

 Look alive! Full inside" curses, curses, curses; 

 rain, rain, rain, and no one can tell which is most 

 plentiful. 



The cab-horse's head comes nearly inside the 

 'bus, the 'bus-pole threatens to poke the hansom 

 in front ; the brougham would be careful, for varnish 

 sake, but is wedged and must take its chance; van- 

 wheels catch omnibus hubs; hurry, scurry, whip, 

 and drive; slip, slide, bump, rattle, jar, jostle, an 

 endless stream clattering on, in, out, and round. 

 On, on " Stanley, on " the first and last words of 

 cabby's life; on, on, the one law of existence in a 

 London street drive on, stumble or stand, drive on 

 strain sinews, crack, splinter drive on; what a 

 sight to watch as you wait amid the newsvendors and 

 bonnetless girls for the 'bus that will not come! Is 

 it real? It seems like a dream, those nightmare 

 dreams in which you know that you must run, and 



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