On they flew, clatter and jingle, twisting like a snipe through the traffic. Mr Bunker perceived that he had a good horse and a good driver, and he smiled in pleasant excitement. He lit a cigar, leaned his arms on the doors, and settled himself to enjoy the race. The black lions of Trafalgar Square flew by, then the colossal hotels of Northumberland Avenue and the railway bridge at Charing Cross, and they were going at a gallop along the Embankment. He got swift glimpses of other cabs and foot-passengers, the trees seemed to flit past like telegraph-posts on a railway, the barges and lighters on the river dropped one by one behind them: it was a fair course for a race, with never a check before Blackfriar’s Bridge. As they turned into Queen Victoria Street he opened the lid and asked, “Are they still in sight?” “Yes, sir; I’m afraid we ain’t gaining much yet. But I’ll do it, sir, no fears.” Mr Bunker lay back and laughed. “This is better than the Park,” he said to himself. They had a fine drive up Queen Victoria Street before they plunged into the whirlpool of traffic at the Bank. They were slowly making their way across when the driver, spying an opening in another stream, abruptly wheeled round for Cornhill, and presently they were off again at top speed. “Thrown them off?” asked Mr Bunker. “Tried to, sir, but they were too sharp and got clear away too.” Mr Bunker saw that it was going to be a stern chase, and laughed again. In order that he might not show ostensibly that he was running away, he resisted the temptation of having another peep through the back, and resigned himself to the chances of the chase. Through and through the lanes and byways of the city they drove, and after each double the answer from the box was always the same. The cab behind could not be shaken off. “Work your way round to Holborn and try a run west,” Mr Bunker suggested. So after a little they struck Newgate Street, and presently their steed stretched himself again in Holborn Viaduct. “Gaining now, cabby?” “A little, sir, I think.” Mr Bunker sat placidly till they were well along Holborn before he inquired again. “Can’t get rid of ’im no ’ow. Afride it ain’t much good, sir.” Mr Bunker passed up five shillings more. “Keep your tail up. You’ll do it yet,” he exhorted. “Try a turn north; you may bother him among the squares.” So they doubled north, and as the evening closed in their wearied horse was lashed through a maze of monotonous streets and tarnished Bloomsbury Squares. And still the other cab stuck to their trail. But when they emerged on the Euston Road, Mr Bunker was as cheerful as ever. “They can’t last much longer,” he said to his driver. “Turn up Regent’s Park way.” A little later he put the usual question and got the same unvarying answer.