A WET NIGHT IN LONDON. 267 



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 

 do run, and yet cannot lift the legs that are heavy as 

 lead, with the demon behind pursuing, the demon of 

 Drive-on. Move, or cease to be — pass out of Time 

 or be stirring quickly ; if you stand you must suifer 

 even here on the pavement, splashed with greasy 

 mud, shoved by coarse ruffianism, however good your 

 intentions — just dare to stand still ! Ideas here for 

 moralizing, but I can't preach with the roar and the 

 din and the wet in my ears, and the flickering street 

 lamps flaring. That's the 'bus — no ; the tarpaulin 

 hangs down and obscures the inscription ; yes. Hi ! 

 No heed ; how could you be so confiding as to 

 imagine conductor or driver would deign to see a 

 Bignalling passenger ; the game is to drive on. 



A gentleman makes a desperate rush and grabs 

 the handrail ; his foot slips on the asphalte or wood, 

 which is like oil, he slides, his hat totters; happily 

 he recovers himself and gets in. In the block the 

 'bus is stayed a moment, and somehow we follow, 

 and are landed — "somehow" advisedly. For how 

 do we get into a 'bus ? After the pavement, even this 



