Time went on, the crowd grew bigger, the mud was churned into slush, and everybody was treading upon everybody else. "Ain't this bloomin' fun, sir?" asked the driver of a growler, his sides shaking with laughter, "Even my ole 'oss 'as bin larfin'." "Very intelligent horse," we said, thinking of Mr. Pickwick, and determining to ask some searching questions as to his antecedents. "Interleck's a great p'int, sir. Which 'ud you sooner be in: a runaway mortar-caw or a keb?" "Neither." "No, I ain't jokin', strite. I've just bin argying wif a bloke as said he'd sooner be in a caw. I said I pitied 'is choice, and wouldn't give 'im much for his charnce. 'Cos why? 'Cos mortar-caws ain't got no interleck. They cawn't tell the dif'rence 'tween nothink an' a brick wall. Now a 'os can. If 'e don't turn orf 'e tries ter jump th' wall, but yer mortar simply goes fer it, and then where are yer? In 'eaven, if yer lucky, or in----" But the rest of his sentence was lost in the roar that ascended from the crowd as the cars commenced their journey to Brighton. They went beautifully for a few yards, chased the mounted police right into the crowd, and then stopped. "It's th' standin' still as does it--not the standin' still, I mean the not going forrard, 'cos they don't stand still," said the cabby, excitedly. "Don't they hum?" he cried. "They certainly do make a little noise." "But I mean, don't they whiff?" "Whiff?" He held his nose. "I say, guv'nor." shouted cabby to a fur-coated foreigner, "wot is it smells so?" Meanwhile there was a certain "something lingering with oil in it," permeating the fog, while a sound as of many humming-tops filled the air. Then the cars moved on a bit, amid the cheers and chaff of a good-humoured crowd. Presently another stoppage and more shivering. "'As thet cove there got th' Vituss dance?" inquired the elated cabby, indicating a gentleman who was wobbling like a piece of jelly. "That's the vibration," explained another. "'Ow does the vibration agree w' the old six yer 'ad last night?" cabby inquired immediately. "I say, Chawlie, don't it make yer sea-sick? Oh my! th' smell!" and he gasped and sat on his box, looking bilious. * * * * * When all the carriages had wended their way to Westminster we asked cabby what he thought of the procession. "Arsk my 'os," said he, with a look of disgust on his face. "What's yer opinion of it, old gal? Failyer? My sentiments. British public won't pay to be choked with stinks one moment and shut up like electricity t' next. Failyer? Quite c'rect." Meanwhile the guests of the Motor-car Club were breakfasting at the Hotel Metropole, where appropriate speeches were made, the Earl of Winchilsea concluding his remarks with the dramatic production of a red flag, which, amid applause, he tore in half, to symbolise the passing of the old restrictions.