"'He is,' said I, 'and from Texas. I am charged to deliver him at the Ritz, where all will be explained': and I dashed around to the rear of the cab, collared Farrell, and hoicked him inboard. . . . "The cab was no sooner under way and steering west-by-south than Farrell clutched hold of me and burst into tears on my shoulder. It appeared, as I coaxed it from him, that his mind had cast back, and he was lamenting the dearth of policemen in Soho. "The hole above us opened, and the cabman spoke down. "'Are you sure you meant the Ritz, sir--really?' "'I don't want to compromise you,' said I. 'Drop us at the head of St. James's Street.' "He did so; took his fee, and hesitated for a moment before turning his horse. 'Sure you can manage the gentleman, sir?' he asked. "'Sure, thank you,' said I, and he drove away slowly. I steered Farrell into the shelter of the Ritz's portico, facing Piccadilly." "_They draw the blinds now (put in Otway) under the Lighting Order: but in those days the Ritz was given--I won't say to advertising its opulence--but to allowing a glimpse of real comfort to the itinerant millionaire. Jimmy resumes:--_ "'Now, look here,' said I, indicating the show inside: 'I wasn't hungry to start with: and I suggest we've both inhaled enough garlic to put us off the manger for a fortnight. As for the bucket, you've exceeded already, and I have taken more than is going to be good for me--a subtle difference which I won't pause here and now to explain. It's a kindly suggestion of yours," said I; 'but I put it to you that it's time for good little Progressives to be in their beds, and you'll just take a taxi from the rank on the slope, trundle home to Wimbledon and go bye-bye.' "Farrell wasn't listening. He had his shoulders planted against a pillar of the portico, and had fallen into a brown study, staring in upon the giddy throng. "'When we look,' said he slowly, like an orator in a dream--'when we are privileged to contemplate, as we are at this moment, such a spectacle of the idle Ritz--excuse me, the idle Rich--and their goings on, and countless poor folk in the East End with nothing but a herring--if that--between them and to-morrow's sunrise-- well, I don't know how it strikes you, but to me it is an Object Lesson. You'll excuse me, Mr.--I haven't the pleasure to remember your name at this moment. I connect it with my Maria's two pianners--something between the Broadwood and the Collard and Collard--you'll excuse me, but putting myself in the place of the angel Gabriel, merely for the sake of argument, this is the sort of way it would take _me_!' "Before I could jump for him, Otty, he lifted his hand and flung something--I don't know what it was, for a certainty, but I believe it was the 'Blanco' tin of sulphuretted hydrogen, that he had been nursing all the way from the 'Catalafina.' . . . At any rate the missile hit. There was an agreeable crash of plate glass, and we ran for our lives.