“Well, if I was you,” said the cabman, speaking very slow, “I should be more perlite to begin with; you accused me just now—me, a ’ard-working man—o’ kidnapping you.” “It was only my fun,” ses Sam, very quick. “I ain’t kidnapping you, am I?” ses the cabman. “Cert’inly not,” ses Sam. “Well, then,” ses the cabman, “if I was you I should pay ’arf a crown for a night’s lodging in this nice warm stable, and in the morning I should ask the man it belongs to—that’s me—to go up to my lodging with a letter, asking for a suit o’ clothes and eleven-and-six.” “Eleven-and-six?” ses Sam, staring. “Five bob for two hours’ wait,” ses the cabman, “four shillings for the drive here, and ’arf a crown for the stable. That’s fair, ain’t it?” Sam said it was—as soon as he was able to speak—and then the cabman gave ’im a truss of straw to lay on and a rug to cover ’im up with. And then, calling ’imself a fool for being so tender-’earted, he left Sam the lantern, and locked the stable-door and went off. It seemed like a ’orrid dream to Sam, and the only thing that comforted ’im was the fact that he felt much better. His illness seemed to ’ave gone, and arter hunting round the stable to see whether ’e could find anything to eat, ’e pulled the rug over him and went to sleep. He was woke up at six o’clock in the morning by the cabman opening the door. There was a lovely smell o’ hot tea from a tin he ’ad in one ’and, and a lovelier smell still from a plate o’ bread and butter and bloaters in the other. Sam sniffed so ’ard that at last the cabman noticed it, and asked ’im whether he ’ad got a cold. When Sam explained he seemed to think a minute or two, and then ’e said that it was ’is breakfast, but Sam could ’ave it if ’e liked to make up the money to a pound. “Take it or leave it,” he ses, as Sam began to grumble. Poor Sam was so ’ungry he took it, and it done him good. By the time he ’ad eaten it he felt as right as ninepence, and ’e took such a dislike to the cabman ’e could hardly be civil to ’im. And when the cabman spoke about the letter to Ginger Dick he spoke up and tried to bate ’im down to seven-and-six. “You write that letter for a pound,” ses the cabman, looking at ’im very fierce, “or else you can walk ’ome in your counterpane, with ’arf the boys in London follering you and trying to pull it off.” Sam rose ’im to seventeen-and-six, but it was all no good, and at last ’e wrote a letter to Ginger Dick, telling ’im to give the cabman a suit of clothes and a pound. “And look sharp about it,” he ses. “I shall expect ’em in ’arf an hour.” “You’ll ’ave ’em, if you’re lucky, when I come back to change ’orses at four o’clock,” ses the cabman. “D’ye think I’ve got nothing to do but fuss about arter you?” “Why not drive me back in the cab?” ses Sam. “'Cos I wasn’t born yesterday,” ses the cabman.