“Me? Oh, nothink! What I say don’t matter. I’m a poor man: I don’t count for anythink. That old garrotter only tried to murder me—that’s all! Flew at me, he did, out of the middle of the road like a laughin’ hyena, and nearly broke my neck, besides wreckin’ my keb. But of course I don’t matter. Let ’im ’ave it ’is own way. One law for the rich, and another—” “Do you charge this gentleman with assault?” interpolated the Special, who had evidently come to the conclusion that it was time to get down to the rigid official formula provided for such occasions as this. “Charge ’im? And waste ’alf a workin’ day at a blinkin’ police court, waitin’ for the case to come on? Not me!” replied the taxi-man, with evident sincerity. “Oh, no, I’m only a pore—” “Constable, will you _please_ tell this man to drive me to Half-moon Street?” demanded a high-pitched voice from the interior of the cab. “I have no power to compel him to drive you anywhere, madam,” replied the Special, with majestic humility. “Well, what powers _have_ you got?” shouted the old gentleman. “At your request, sir, I can take his name and number, and you can charge him with declining to ply for hire when called upon to do so,” chanted the limb of the Law. “Do you wish to charge him?” “_Wish?_” shrieked the old gentleman. “Of course I wish! I mean”—as he met the cold and steady eye of the Special—“I shall be obliged if you will charge this man, officer.” “Very good,” was the gracious reply. “Now I can _act_.” The Special turned to the cabman, with pencil poised. “Your name?” “Most certainly you shell ’ave my name!” retorted the other, with the air of a master-tactician who at last sees his opponent walk into a long-prepared trap. “_And_ my number, too! And you’ll oblige me, Constable, by takin’ _his_ name and address as well. I don’t intend for to—” “Your name?” suggested the Special unfeelingly. “Henery Mosscockle, Number Five-oh-seven-oh—” Details followed, all duly noted. Then came the turn of the old gentleman. He proffered a visiting-card, and gave another to the cabman, who apologized for being unable to reciprocate, on the ground that he had left his card-case on the Victrola in his drawing-room. Our Three Musketeers, together with their D’Artagnan, were moved to audible chuckles. The old gentleman, aware of their presence for the first time, swung round and addressed them. “American soldiers!” he exclaimed. “Good-morning, gentlemen. I am sorry that you should have witnessed such a poor specimen of British patriotism. None of that sort in your country, I’ll be bound!” Our friends saluted politely, and cast about for an answer which should be both candid and equally agreeable to all parties—not, when you come to think of it, a particularly easy task. But it was that ill-used individual, the taxi-driver, who replied. He thrust a bristling chin towards the old gentleman. “Patriotism?” he barked. “As man to man, tell me—’ow old are you?”