“Hullo!” said poor old Tommy Byles; “here’s another bloomin’ loonattic. Blowed if there ain’t.” “It’s old George,” said Old Tootles, “and he’s drivin’ a loonattic, _as_ you say. Ain’t he a-clawin’ out of the keb? Wonder if he’s after ’Arry ’Icks?” The group round the cabmen’s shelter became animated. Chorus: “Go it, George!” “It’s a race.” “You’ll ketch ’em!” “Whip up!” “She’s a goer, she is!” said the ostler boy. “Strike me giddy!” cried Old Tootles. “Here! _I’m_ a-goin’ to begin in a minute. Here’s another comin’. If all the kebs in Hampstead ain’t gone mad this morning!” “It’s a fieldmale this time,” said the ostler boy. “She’s a followin’ _him_,” said Old Tootles. “Usually the other way about.” “What’s she got in her ’and?” “Looks like a ’igh ’at.” “What a bloomin’ lark it is! Three to one on old George,” said the ostler boy. “Nexst!” Minnie went by in a perfect roar of applause. She did not like it, but she felt that she was doing her duty, and whirled on down Haverstock Hill and Camden Town High Street, with her eyes ever intent on the animated back view of old George, who was driving her vagrant husband so incomprehensibly away from her. The man in the foremost cab sat crouched in the corner, his arms tightly folded, and the little tube that contained such vast possibilities of destruction gripped in his hand. His mood was a singular mixture of fear and exultation. Chiefly he was afraid of being caught before he could accomplish his purpose, but behind this was a vaguer but larger fear of the awfulness of his crime. But his exultation far exceeded his fear. No Anarchist before him had ever approached this conception of his. Ravachol, Vaillant, all those distinguished persons whose fame he had envied dwindled into insignificance beside him. He had only to make sure of the water-supply, and break the little tube into a reservoir. How brilliantly he had planned it, forged the letter of introduction and got into the laboratory, and how brilliantly he had seized his opportunity! The world should hear of him at last. All those people who had sneered at him, neglected him, preferred other people to him, found his company undesirable, should consider him at last. Death, death, death! They had always treated him as a man of no importance. All the world had been in a conspiracy to keep him under. He would teach them yet what it is to isolate a man. What was this familiar street? Great Saint Andrew’s Street, of course! How fared the chase? He craned out of the cab. The Bacteriologist was scarcely fifty yards behind. That was bad. He would be caught and stopped yet. He felt in his pocket for money, and found half-a-sovereign. This he thrust up through the trap in the top of the cab into the man’s face. “More,” he shouted, “if only we get away.”