[Illustration: "Sort o' parson one time, if all stories is true."] A CABBY may be this or that; 'e's a chap as the world is much given to slang or to chaff; But there's one blessed boon as is usually 'is, 'e can do--what your prigs seldom can--a fair laugh. I 'ave known a good few of all sorts in my time; some scarce fit for to tool a old SAWBONES's gig, Some as smart as they're made; but I never yet met a true Cabby as answered percisely to "prig." You look at a rank at a time fares is off, and the nosebags is on, and you find the chaps all A 'anging around with their 'ands in their pockets, 'ard by their pet pub, or close under a wall. They're looking about 'em, and passing the patter, and doubling sharp up at a wheeze or a joke; They may look on the lollop, but not on the sulk, nor they don't 'ang their 'eads like a ill-tempered moke. But life's not _all_ laugh with 'em give you my word; summer's not all a beano, while winter is worse, And many a chap must drive 'ard through a sleet-storm when fur better fitted for blankets and nurse. Your fare snugged inside _may_ be grumpy and growly, a crack in the winder will give '_im_ the 'ump; But _you_ mustn't cuss, though you're soaked to your socks, and the rheumatiz racks your poor back at each bump. Stillsomever to take the lot smilin' 's _our_ motter, though sometimes the smile sets a mossel askew. Old "TOMMY THE THUMPER"'s just left me. Queer egg! Sort o' parson one time, if all stories is true. But rum 'ot and religion don't mix none too well, as tomater-nosed TOMMY 'as reason to know. Still 'e '_as_ got the gift o' the gab, and no error, 'is yarns when 'e's on, make yer creepy and low. TOMMY is one o' that mildewy sort as are gen'rally gloomy and down on their luck. 'E will tip you 'is graveyardy tales of old times, till you stand 'im a nobbler, or give 'im the chuck. Remembers the old body-snatchers, TOM does, and the BURKE and HARE yarns make you cold as a dab; But what 'e reeled out o'er 'is rum-'ot to-night was a gospel-true tale of a old Haunted Cab. "Gospel-true, on _my_ davy," is TOMMY's pet clincher. "Ah, JACK," 'e grumped out, as 'e stoppered 'is bowl With a forefinger brown as a rusty old spike; "you young chirpers ain't go neither fancy nor soul. Hagnostical lot, you smart 'Ansoms, as think you are HUXLEYS on wheels, I 'ave not the least doubt, But why ain't a cab just as like as a castle to 'ave its own ghost? Tell me that, 'GINGER GROUT'!"