The cabby has his point of view. It is more singleminded，perhaps， than that of a follower of any othercalling. From the high， swaying seat of his hansom helooks upon his fellow-men as nomadic particles， of noaccount except when possessed of migratory desires. Heis Jehu， and you are goods in transit. Be you President orvagabond， to cabby you are only a Fare， he takes you up，cracks his whip， joggles your vertebrae and sets you down.
When time for payment arrives， if you exhibit afamiliarity with legal rates you come to know whatcontempt is； if you find that you have left your pocketbookbehind you are made to realise the mildness of Dante’simagination.
It is not an extravagant theory that the cabby’s singlenessof purpose and concentrated view of life are the results ofthe hansom’s peculiar construction. The cock-of-the-roostsits aloft like Jupiter on an unsharable seat， holding yourfate between two thongs of inconstant leather. Helpless，ridiculous， confined， bobbing like a toy mandarin， yousit like a rat in a trap—you， before whom butlers cringeon solid land—and must squeak upward through a slit inyour peripatetic sarcophagus to make your feeble wishesknown.
Then， in a cab， you are not even an occupant； you arecontents. You are a cargo at sea， and the “cherub that sitsup aloft” has Davy Jones’s street and number by heart.
One night there were sounds of revelry in the big bricktenement-house next door but one to McGary’s FamilyCafé. The sounds seemed to emanate from the apartmentsof the Walsh family. The sidewalk was obstructed by anassortment of interested neighbours， who opened a lanefrom time to time for a hurrying messenger bearing fromMcGary’s goods pertinent to festivity and diversion.
The sidewalk contingent was engaged in comment anddiscussion from which it made no effort to eliminate thenews that Norah Walsh was being married.
In the fulness of time there was an eruption of themerry-makers to the sidewalk. The uninvited guestsenveloped and permeated them， and upon the night airrose joyous cries， congratulations， laughter and unclassifiednoises born of McGary’s oblations to the hymeneal scene.
Close to the curb stood Jerry O’Donovan’s cab. Nighthawkwas Jerry called； but no more lustrous or cleanerhansom than his ever closed its doors upon point lace andNovember violets. And Jerry’s horse！ I am within boundswhen I tell you that he was stuffed with oats until one ofthose old ladies who leave their dishes unwashed at homeand go about having expressmen arrested， would havesmiled—yes， smiled—to have seen him.
Among the shifting， sonorous， pulsing crowd glimpsescould be had of Jerry’s high hat， battered by the windsand rains of many years； of his nose like a carrot， batteredby the frolicsome， athletic progeny of millionaires andby contumacious fares； of his brass-buttoned green coat，admired in the vicinity of McGary’s. It was plain that Jerryhad usurped the functions of his cab， and was carryinga “load.” Indeed， the figure may be extended and he belikened to a bread-waggon if we admit the testimony ofa youthful spectator， who was heard to remark “Jerry hasgot a bun.”
From somewhere among the throng in the street orelse out of the thin stream of pedestrians a young womantripped and stood by the cab. The professional hawk’s eyeof Jerry caught the movement. He made a lurch for thecab， overturning three or four onlookers and himself—no！
he caught the cap of a water-plug and kept his feet. Like asailor shinning up the ratlins during a squall Jerry mountedto his professional seat. Once he was there McGary’sliquids were baffled. He seesawed on the mizzenmast ofhis craft as safe as a Steeple Jack rigged to the flagpole of askyscraper.
“Step in， lady，” said Jerry， gathering his lines. The youngwoman stepped into the cab； the doors shut with a bang；Jerry’s whip cracked in the air； the crowd in the gutterscattered， and the fine hansom dashed away ’crosstown.
When the oat-spry horse had hedged a little his firstspurt of speed Jerry broke the lid of his cab and called downthrough the aperture in the voice of a cracked megaphone，trying to please：
“Where， now， will ye be drivin’ to？”
“Anywhere you please，” came up the answer， musical andcontented.
“’Tis drivin’ for pleasure she is，” thought Jerry. And thenhe suggested as a matter of course：
“Take a thrip around in the park， lady. ’Twill be ilegantcool and fine.”
“Just as you like，” answered the fare， pleasantly.
The cab headed for Fifth avenue and sped up that perfectstreet. Jerry bounced and swayed in his seat. The potentfluids of McGary were disquieted and they sent new fumesto his head. He sang an ancient song of Killisnook andbrandished his whip like a baton.
