Mr. Grace was purple. “Pushed me orf me keb, that's wot they did. And now I arsks yer ter h'inspeck that roof. 'E wuz goin' to arrest me. Garn, puddin' face. Yer daren't.” “Move along. Move along, me man.” There was nothing for it. Mr. Grace picked up the reins. “Puddin' face,” he flung back across his shoulder. “Yes, h'it's you I'm meamn'. Puddin' face--yer bally cop.” It was only when he had turned a corner and climbed down to examine the damage, that he realized that he had lost Mr. Waffles. He trundled back to London--had got as far as Hyde Park Corner, when a yelling boy rushed by him with a sheaf of papers. “Hi, wot's that?” He snatched one and read: “_Dark Blue Victory._ “_Long Stern Chase._ “_Barrington's Great Spurt._ “_Cambridge Beaten at the Winning Post_.” What did it matter? What did anything matter, broken roofs or bruised mouths. Peter had done the trick! Peter, the queer little tyke who had been his prickcaution! He shouted the news to Cat's Meat. He held up the traffic, he and Cat's Meat, and the dark blue cab. He must tell somebody,--somebody who would understand. Mr. Waffles would understand. He had a few drinks at a few pubs and arrived at Soho hilarious. Mr. Widow informed him that Ocky had not returned. He wandered off in search of the flower-girl. At the back of his mind the belief grew up that she would be sympathetic. He found her, tucked her inside and drove back to Soho. Mr. Widow didn't approve of the flower-girl and said that Ocky hadn't come back. How many times did he halt before the second-hand shop? How many pubs had he visited? What had become of little Kiss-me-Quick, the flower-girl? She'd disappeared, and he hadn't any money in his pockets. Never mind, there was a hole in the roof of his cab--his day's work had given him something. Night fell. Stars came out. Did he make up the song himself? Couldn't have. He found himself again before the second-hand shop, still on the box of his cab. The shop was shut and he was singing to empty windows: “Oh, Mr. Widow, though A murderer you be, You're Sure, a very nice man-- A good enough pal for me.” Mr. Widow came out, sincerely grieved, and expostulated. Mr. Grace begged his pardon profoundly. He told him that he'd always admired his religious whiskers; wouldn't hurt his feelings, however many wives he'd murdered; wanted to be friends. He added, in a whisper, that he had a daughter who'd be all the better for a poker brought down smartly across her nut. She was religious, too, only she hadn't got whiskers. Then he insisted on shaking hands, and was at last allowed to on condition that, if this token of esteem was granted, he would go away and never, never more come back--at least, not till morning.