The Owl Taxi. Footner Hulbert

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      Rebuffed in this direction the driver turned eagerly to the latest comer, Greg. There was something almost pathetic in his anxiety to make friends. Every soul has those moments of desperate lonesomeness. Greg was not at all backward in responding. The driver was a spare little man in an overcoat sizes too big for him and almost reaching the ground. Greg was reminded of an old illustration of the Artful Dodger. He had a sharp, humorous, apelike face, much seamed, and in his eyes was a light at once childlike, impudent and deprecating. Taxi-drivers, that is to say "owl-drivers" like this one, wear no uniform, but they are unmistakable. It may be their overcoats which are full of character. This one was incredibly worn and shapeless. With it went a round cloth cap with a flap let down behind to protect the wearer's ears and neck.

      "Say fella," said this individual with engaging impudence; "drink with me, will yeh, if it's not a liberty?"

      "Sure," said Greg, "if you'll have another with me after."

      "What are you drinking?"

      "Rye high-ball."

      "Well I don't gen'ally dilute my liquor but just to be high-toned—say Jack! Two rye high-balls."

      The refreshment was duly served. Greg noticed that as the taxi-driver lifted his glass his hand trembled, yet he was a young and healthy-looking man. Greg wondered momentarily if he had a secret agitation, and then forgot about it.

      They exchanged opinions upon the quality of the whiskey and the rottenness of the weather outside. These and other pleasant conventionalities, not to speak of two high-balls apiece, opened the way for more personal communications. They decided they liked each other.

      "I'm Hickey Meech," said the driver. "Christened Robert at birth, but Hickey because I come from the country, though that's fifteen years ago, and I'm like to die before I see it again."

      "I shan't tell you my name," said Greg. "Meaning no offense, you understand; but it's been in the papers lately, and I want it to be forgotten."

      "Sure that's all right," said Hickey. "What's in a man's label anyhow; 'taint guaranteed by no poor feud law." He glanced sideways at Greg's good clothes. "You're a bit off your regular beat to-night, ain't you?"

      "I'm sailing on the Savoia."

      "The Hell you say! Well some guys has all the luck!"

      Greg laughed shortly. He experienced a sudden desire to talk about himself; to put his case before a disinterested party who did not know him, and whom he would never see again; it would help him to grasp his own situation, he felt. During the last difficult weeks he had not talked to any one.

      "I don't know as anybody would call me lucky," he said. "I've lately had a good crack over the head. Maybe it was good for my character, but it hurt just the same."

      "Oh, we all get those," the other replied sententiously.

      "My Dad died when I was a kid," Greg went on. "He left us well-fixed as things go. The property was all in the hands of his partner as trustee. Well, since then I've been accustomed to sucking my silver spoon, as you might say; went to the most expensive schools and college, and didn't learn much except how to drive a racing car. I can drive a car, but that's not going to lay up any bonds in a safe deposit vault.

      "Well, it's an old story, but, believe me, when it happens to yourself it has all the effect, if not the charm, of novelty! A month ago our trustee died and left his affairs in a snarl. Our property has just vamosed; he didn't steal it, you understand; it just naturally melted in his hot hands.

      "I managed to save enough out of the wreck—it was my first experience of business and I don't like it—to keep the girls from actual want, but there wasn't a penny left for me. Of course I was well known in certain circles and there were plenty of men who would have given me a job out of charity; but I wasn't going to be a poor relation in the crowd where I had once kept my end up with the best. I was pried loose from my old foundations and I wanted an entirely fresh start. So I decided to try my luck in London. No small town stuff for me. It seemed like a good idea when it came to me but now—I don't know——"

      The driver was all sympathy. "What's the matter? Leaving somebody behind you?"

      "No," said Greg smiling; "only the old town. I didn't know it had such a hold on me!"

      "Every dog loves its own lamp-posts," said Hickey. "It'll do you good to see the world. Wish to God I had the chance! And you'll make good. Even though you've lost your coin you've got the habit of class. Nobody can't take that from you. And people just naturally give up to a classy guy."

      "I don't quite get you," said Greg.

      "You've got style," said the taxi-driver. "Anybody could see you were accustomed to traveling with top-notchers."

      "Nothing in it," said Greg. "My 'style' as you call it only gets in my way now that I've nothing to keep it up on. I'd do better if I could begin life over on a section gang."

      "Don't you fool yourself," retorted the taxi-driver. "That's the way a swell always talks. 'Gee!' says he, 'if I was on'y a horny handed ton of soil I could make something of myself!' It reads well in a book. But take it from me, kid, the ditch-digger is the scratch man in the race of life; he's got twict as far to run. Why any ordinary fella born in a soft bed can keep it, but it takes one o' these here now Napoleons to win one. Look at me now. I may as well say I ain't no Napoleon and here I am. I was born to sweat, and I'm still sweating. Of course I got my vices. I shoot craps; that helps keep me poor. But it's the habit of being poor that's so hard to break. If I could only once get ahead far enough to buy me a real swell outfit nothing could stop me."

      "You're dead wrong," said Greg. "There's not so much in appearances as people like to think. Why, the richest man I know goes around looking like a rag-picker. And there's many a fancy vest covers an empty stomach. A workman with a good trade is a king alongside one of those poor devils that clings to the edge of what is called Society."

      "Well, I'd like to try a little clinging."

      "There's nothing like honest work."

      "For others. Anybody can have my share. I wisht I had your chances, that's all."

      "I'd give my 'chances' as you call them quick enough for a trade."

      Hickey favored Greg with a queer look. "Do you mean that?"

      "Sure I mean it."

      There was a silence of a moment or two while Hickey dipped his forefinger in a wet spot and drew designs on the mahogany. At last he asked very off-hand:

      "Would you call driving a taxi a trade?"

      "Sure. Why not?"

      "Well, why don't you try that? You said you could drive."

      "Well, in London I don't suppose I could compete with the native article."

      "I mean here."

      "I'm going to London, I told you."

      "But you don't have to go. According to yourself it's just a notion that you're sorry you took already."

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