What to do now? The night was young. A return to the stable was not to be contemplated; that daughter of his must be avoided. Some time, when he was a very old man, he'd go home to her. But not yet. It wasn't every man who owned a blue and yellow cab with a hole in the roof of it. Perhaps it was eleven--perhaps earlier. He was in Leicester Square, affording himself the supreme luxury of refusing to be hired. Coming down the steps of the Empire was a group of young men, broad-shouldered, slim of hip and in evening dress. Their arms were linked. As soon as they appeared, cheering began; a crowd gathered round. Someone commenced to sing. Others took it up: “Mary had a little heart. She lent it to a feller, Who swallowed it by h'axerdent And didn't dare to tell 'er. She asked it back and said she'd sue-- Away the feller ran. Whatever will poor Mary do? She's lost both heart and man.” They'd all gone mad. Pandemonium broke loose. Mr. Grace wondered vaguely what it meant. Why were people dancing? Why were people shouting? Then he saw that the maddest of the mad wore a dark blue badge. He heard someone explain to a neighbor, “The winning crew.” His brain cleared. He was off his box in a flash, struggling, panting, fighting his way to that tall young chap who was in the centre. He was wringing him by the hand. “Why, by all that's wonderful, it's Mr. Grace! Where did you spring from?” Before the question was answered, Peter was introducing him, to the Faun Man, to Harry, to Hardcastle, to a host of others. Mr. Grace was both elated and abashed. “Want a keb? Sime old keb, Mr. Peter--got it 'ere a-witing for you.” “Want a cab! I don't know. You see, there are so many of us.” “'Ow many? There's plenty o' room, Mr. Peter, both inside and h'out. There ain't no charge. Put h'as many h'as yer like on the roof, so long as Cat's Meat can drar yer. I've 'ad a ole cut for yer legs on purpose.” Harry laughed. “If Cat's Meat can't manage it, we'll shove.” They piled in uproariously. The suggestion was made that Cat's Meat should be taken out and that Peter should be allowed to ride him. Mr. Grace wouldn't hear of it. “None o' that, young gen'lemen. Cruelty ter h'animiles. The keb 'olds 'im h'up.--Where to?” The Gilded Turtle was mentioned. For all that there were four on the roof and six inside, Cat's Meat never made an easier journey--that was due to the singing mob of undergraduates who lent a hand. And Mr. Grace--he reflected that it wasn't for naught that he had repainted his growler. He was the proudest cabby in London that night--he was going to be prouder.