This is the
kind of thing:--
_You_. I want to go to Bedford Gardens.
_The Sunbeam_ (_indignantly_). Where's that?
_You_. In Kensington.
_The Sunbeam_. That's too far. I've got another job at half-past four
(_or_ My petrol's run out).
_You_. If I gave you an extra shilling could you just manage it?
_The Sunbeam_ (_scowling_). All right. Jump in.
This that follows also happens so frequently as to be practically the
rule and not the exception:--
_You_. 12, Lexham Gardens.
_The Sunbeam_. 12, Leicester Gardens.
_You_. No; LEXHAM.
_The Sunbeam_. 12, Lexham Road?
_You_ (_shouting_). No; Lexham GARDENS!
_The Sunbeam_. What number?
_You_. TWELVE!
To illustrate the power that the taxi-driver has been wielding over
London during the past week or so of mitigated festivity, let me tell
a true story. I was in a cab with my old friend Mark, one of the most
ferocious sticklers for efficiency in underlings who ever sent for the
manager. His maledictions on bad waiters have led to the compulsory
re-decorating of half the restaurants of London months before their
time, simply by discolouring the walls with their intensity.
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