“Could ha’ told _you_ that,” said the nearest driver. But nobody moved. The stranger stood on the pavement beside the big, cream-coloured taxi, and looked across at the group of men on the grass. He did not want to address them. “Want a taxi?” called Jack. “Yes. Where are the drivers?” replied the stranger, in unmistakeable English: English of the old country. “Where d’you want to go?” called the driver of the cream-coloured taxi, without rising from the grass. “Murdoch Street.” “Murdoch Street? What number?” “Fifty-one.” “Neighbour of yours, Jack,” said Dug, turning to his mate. “Taking it furnished, four guineas a week,” said Jack in a tone of information. “All right,” said the driver of the cream-coloured taxi, rising at last from the grass. “I’ll take you.” “Go across to 120 first,” said the little bloke, pointing to the house. “There’s my wife and the bags. But look!” he added quickly. “You’re not going to charge me a shilling each for the bags.” “What bags? Where are they?” “There at the top of the steps.” “All right, I’ll pull across and look at ’em.” The bloke walked across, and the taxi at length curved round after him. The stranger had carried his bags to the foot of the steps: two ordinary-sized gladstones, and one smallish square hat-box. There they stood against the wall. The taxi-driver poked out his head to look at them. He surveyed them steadily. The stranger stood at bay. “Shilling _apiece_, them bags,” said the driver laconically. “Oh no. The tariff is three-pence,” cried the stranger. “Shilling apiece, them bags,” repeated the driver. He was one of the proletariat that has learnt the uselessness of argument. “That’s not just, the tariff is three-pence.” “All right, if you don’t want to pay the fare, don’t engage the car, that’s all. Them bags is a shilling apiece.” “Very well, I don’t want to pay so much.” “Oh, all right. If you don’t, you won’t. But they’ll cost you a shilling apiece on a taxi, an’ there you are.” “Then I don’t want a taxi.” “Then why don’t you say so. There’s no harm done. I don’t want to charge you for pulling across here to look at the bags. If you don’t want a taxi, you don’t. I suppose you know your own mind.” Thus saying he pushed off the brakes and the taxi slowly curved round on the road to resume its previous stand. The strange little bloke and his wife stood at the foot of the steps beside the bags, looking angry. And then a hansom-cab came clock-clocking slowly along the road, also going to draw up for the dinner hour at the quiet place opposite. But the driver spied the angry couple. “Want a cab, sir?” “Yes, but I don’t think you can get the bags on.” “How many bags?” “Three. These three,” and he kicked them with his toe, angrily. The hansom-driver looked down from his Olympus. He was very red-faced, and a little bit humble.