England -- Social life and customs -- 20th century -- Fiction; English fiction -- 20th century; Short stories, English
Woods, with a set face, ordered the full strength of his stables to
assemble at the station on the first morning to meet the train due just
before eleven. The flies and wagonettes took up position; the large new
omnibus, on rushing up with uniformed driver and boy conductor, found
itself obliged to be satisfied with a place near the cloakroom entrance.
As passengers came out Woods and his men attacked them much in the way
that highwaymen would have behaved a hundred years before.
“Sixpence all the way!” they shouted. “Here you are, lady! Cheaper than
the motor! Here you are, lady, sixpence all the way!”
Perhaps the fierce onslaught was an error in tactics. Perhaps it would
have been wiser not to draw attention to the presence of a swifter mode
of conveyance. Perhaps the natural independence of Londoners induced
them to consider before coming to a decision. A messenger sent to the
new omnibus returned with the news that the fare was eightpence—fourpence
cheaper than the old fare, but obviously twopence dearer than Mr. Woods’s
new tariff.
“Oh, it’s worth it!” cried young ladies. “Do let’s go by motor. We
shall get there ever so much quicker.”
Woods likened them, rather bitterly, to sheep. On the two first
passengers clambering up to the outside seats the others made a quick
rush to secure the remaining places; the inside was filled by those who
did not wish to separate from friends, and the new omnibus, after half a
minute of irresolution that almost induced Woods to believe in the
efficacy of prayer, flew away through the station gates and up the main
street of the village, and away out of sight. His men gathered around
Mr. Woods and prophesied a breakdown; made recommendations. He ordered
them to do nothing but obey orders, and went off to sulk in the
smoke-room of the Railway Hotel.
From which tent he was summoned an hour and a half later by a constable
of the town, who said definitely:
“Mr. Woods, sir, this won’t do.”
“Go away!” commanded the fly proprietor irritably; “I don’t want your
sympathy.”
“It isn’t sympathy I’m giving, it’s a warning. If you don’t call your
men off, we shall end in a riot.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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