[The first Cabman's Shelter or "Rest" in the Metropolis was set up at the Stand in Acacia Road, St. John's Wood, on February 6, 1875.] There! After a two 'ours slow crawl through a fog, _with_ a cough, and a fare as is sour and tight-fisted, Why, even a larky one drops a bit low, and the tail of 'is temper gits terrible twisted. And that's where the Shelter comes 'andily in. With a cup of 'ot corfee, a slice and a "sojer," _And_ 'bacca to follow, life don't look so bad! What do _you_ think? I says to my pal BILLY BOGER. Brown-crusted one, BILLY; 'ard baked from 'is birth. Drives a "Growler" yer see, and behaves quite according. Rum picter 'e makes with 'is 'at on 'is nose, and 'is back rounded up like, against a damp hoarding. Kinder kicks it at comfort, contrairy-wise, BILL do; won't take it on nohow, the orkurd old Tartar. The sort as won't 'ave parrydise as a gift if so be it pervents 'em from playing the martyr! "That's 'Jackdaw' the Snapshotter all up and down!" says BILL with a grunt. That's a nickname 'e's guv me Along of my liking for looking at life. Well, the world is a floorer all round; but Lord love me Mere grumble's no good; doesn't mend things a mite; world rolls on and larfs at us; don't seem a doubt of it; Cuss it and cross it, and over _you_ go! Better far to stand by and look on, till you're out of it. "Heye like a bloomin' old robin, _you_ 'ave," says BILL (meaning _me_), "allus cocked at creation As though you was recknin' it up for a bid like. And what is the end of your fine 'observation'? You squint, and you heft, and you size people up, sorter 'grading 'em out' as Yank JONATHAN puts it. And when you are through, what's the hodds? All my heye! You boss till you're blind, and then death hups and shuts it!" Carn't 'it it, we carn't. But we're pals all the same, becos BILL is more 'onest than some who're more 'arty. We kid, and we kibosh each other like fun, but when H. J. wants backing old BILLY'S the party, And when BILLY busts JACK is all there, you bet, although _I_ tool a Forder and _'e_ a old Growler. But pickles ain't in it for sourness with BILLY, nor yet fresh-laid widders for doin' the 'owler. "Hansom up!"--"Ah!" says old BILLY. "_Per_cisely! It's jest 'Hansom up, Growler _down_!' _I_ ain't in it With sech a smart, dashing young Jehu as _you_, as can put on your quarter o' mile to the minute! Hivory fitments, and bevel-edged mirrors! A lady's boodwore in blue cloth! Ain't it 'trotty'? Wanity Fair upon wheels, JACK, _I_ call it. Wot price now I wonder for me and OLD SPOTTY? [Illustration]