“Strange h'as it may seem ter yer, Master Peter, I don't fancy the h'inside o' me own keb. Know too much abart it. There wuz a bloke I druv ter the 'orspital t'other day wrapped up in blankits. 'E died o' smallspecks. But anythin' ter h'oblidge a friend.” The door closed behind them. “'Ere, darn wiv that winder, young 'un. I feel crawlly wivout air. Sye, don't yer tell yer pa wot I said abart me keb.” Peter seized the cabman's hairy hand and held it firmly; he had to anchor him somehow. “Has Grace told you anything about my Uncle Waffles?” “Swiped somefing, didn't 'e?” “Yes.” “Wise bloke. Honesty's been my ruin. H'I allaws returns the numbrella's wot's left in me keb. I might 'a been a rich man; there's lots o' money in numbrellas.---- Wot did 'e swipe? 'Andkerchiefs or jewels?” “He swiped money; but he meant to give it back.” Mr. Grace made an explosive sound, followed by innumerable gurglings, like the blowing of a bung out of a beer barrel. “Yer make me larf. Wot d'yer taik me for? I ain't no chicken---- Oh, me tripes and onions! He meant to give it back! Ha-ha-ha!---- Now come, Master Peter, no uncle o' yours 'ud be such a fool as that.” “Well, anyway, he didn't give it back and they're after him.” “Oo? The cops?” “Yes. Grace's policeman.” Mr. Grace sat up with such violence that the cab groaned in its ancient timbers. “The devil, 'e is! A nice, h'amiable man, my Grice's policeman! 'E's allaws makin' h'enmity 'tween me and my darter. 'E watches the pubs and tells 'er abart me, and 'im no better 'imself. H'I 'ate' im. So 'e's after yer uncle?” “He and a tall thin man who's been watching our house for a fortnight. My uncle's up the Crescent hiding in the front garden of an empty house. You've got to help me to get him away and hide him.” Mr. Grace laid his finger against his bulbous nose. “Daingerous work, Peter! Daingerous work! H'its against traffic reg'lations to h'aid and h'abet a h'escapin' criminal. Wot yer goin' ter do wiv 'im if I lends yer me keb?” Peter bent his head and whispered. Mr. Grace chuckled, slapping his fat thighs. “Blime! Lord love us! That ain't 'alf bad. That's one in the h'eye for me darter's young feller. H'I'm on, me lad.” An irascible old gentleman who had been stamping his feet on the pavement, looking for the driver, now rattled his stick on the side of the cab. “'Ere, don't yer do that. Yer'll knock the paint h'orf.” “I've been waiting out here for half an hour. It's disgraceful. Drive me to Paddington.” Mr. Grace waddled out of the cab and shut the door behind him, leaving Peter inside. “I'm h'engaged,” he said. While he removed the nose-bag from Cat's Meat's head and gathered up the reins, the old gentleman addressed a few remarks, the purport of which was that Mr. Grace would find himself without a license. As the cab turned to climb the Crescent, Mr. Grace made an effort to outdo this burst of eloquence.