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قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 98, January 18, 1890

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‏اللغة: English
Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 98, January 18, 1890

Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 98, January 18, 1890

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دار النشر: Project Gutenberg
الصفحة رقم: 5

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A Cab-array.

The Elderly Gentleman (smiling sweetly, and balancing himself on his heels against some railings). I'm shure I dunno.

Cabman. Well, look, can't yer? don't keep me 'ere all day—feel in yer pockets, come!

[The Old Gentleman makes an abortive effort to find a pocket about him somewhere, and then relapses into abstraction.

Crowd. Let 'im take 'is time, he'll pay yer right enough, if you let the man alone.

A Woman. Ah, pore gentleman, the best of us is took like that sometimes!

[Murmurs of sympathy.

Cabman. I don't want no more than what's my own. 'E's rode in my keb, and I want my fare out of 'im—an' I mean 'aving it, too!

[Here the Old Gentleman, who seems bored by the discussion, abruptly serpentines off again and is immediately overtaken and surrounded.

The E. G. Wha' d'ye mean? 'founded 'perrinence! Lemme 'lone ... 'portant bishniss!

Cabman. Pay me my fare,—or I'll have your bag!

[Seizes bag; the Elderly Gentleman resisting feebly, and always smiling.

Crowd. Why can't yer pay the man his fare and have done with it? There, he's feeling in his pockets—he's going to pay yer now!

[Elderly Gentleman dives vaguely in a pocket, and eventually produces a threepenny bit, which he tenders magnificently.

Cabman. Thruppence ain't no good to me—two shillings is what I want out o' you—a florin—'j'ear me?

The E. G. (after another dive fishes up three halfpence). Thash all you're 'titled, to—go 'way, go 'way!

Crowd (soothingly to Cabman). 'E'll make it up in time—don't 'urry 'im.

Cabman. D' ye think I kin stand 'ere cooling my 'eels, while he's payin' me a 'apn'y every 'arf 'our? I've got my living to earn same as you 'ave!

Crowd. Ah, he's right there! (Persuasively to Elderly Gentleman.) 'Ere, Ole Guv'nor, fork out like a man!

[The Old Guv'nor shakes his head at them with a knowing expression.

Cabman. Well, I shan't let go o' this 'ere bag till I am paid—that's all!

[Here a Policeman arrives on scene.

Policeman. Now, then, what's all this? Move along 'ere, all of you—don't go blocking up the thoroughfare like this! (Scathingly.) What are yer all lookin' at? (The Crowd, feeling this rebuke, move away some three paces, and then linger undecidedly.) 'Ere, Cabman, you've no right to lay 'old on that gentleman's bag—you know that as well as I do!

Cabman (somewhat mollified by this tribute to his legal knowledge, releases bag). Well, he ain't got no right to ride in my keb, and do a guy, without paying nothink, 'as he?

Policeman. All I tell you is—you've no right to detain his bag.

Cabman. Let 'im pay me my legal fare, then—two shillings it is 'e owes me. I don't want to hinterfere with 'im, if he'll pay me.

Pol. (with a magnificent impartality, to the E. G.). What have you got to say to that?

The E. G. (with a dignified wave of the hand). Shay? Why, tha' I'm shimply—a gerrilm'n.

Pol. (his impartiality gradually merging into official disgust). Well, all I can say to you is, if you are one, don't abuse it.... Where are you going to?

The E. G. (brimming over with happy laughter). I dunno!

Pol. (deciding to work on his fears). Don't you? Well, I do, then. I know where you're goin' to—ah, and where you'll be, too, afore you're much older—the station-'us!—(with a slight lapse into jocularity, in concession to his audience)—"for one night honly"—that's your direction, unless you look out. (With virtuous indignation.) 'Ere are you—calling yourself a gentleman, and old enough to know better—riding in this man's keb, and trying to bilk him out of his money. Why, you ought to be ashamed o' yourself!

A Funny Onlooker. Now, Policeman, why do you interfere? Why can't you leave them to settle it between them?

Pol. (turning on him with awful dignity). I don't want no suggestions from you, Sir. I know my dooty, and them as tries to obstruck me'll get no good by it. I'm not 'ere to take one man's part more than another.

Cabman. Well, ain't you goin' to do something now you are here? What's the good of a Copper if he won't 'elp a man to git his rights, eh?

[Murmurs of sympathy from Crowd.

Pol. Now, you mind yourself—that's what you'd better do, or you'll be gitting into trouble next! I've told you I can't interfere one way or the other; and—(generally, to Crowd)—you must pass along 'ere, please, or I shall 'ave to make yer.

Crowd (to Eld. G.). Give the man his money, can't yer? Pay 'im!

Cabman. Come, look sharp! Just you pay me!

The E. G. How c'n I pay, man? P'fectly 'shurd! Go to bleeshes!

[Bolts again, and is once more overtaken by the indignant Cabman.

Pol. (following up). Now, then, Cabman, don't go hustling him!

[Crowd's sympathy veers round to the E. G. again.

Cabman. 'Oo's 'ustlin'? I ain't laid a finger on 'im. (Magnanimously.) I've no wish to 'inder 'im from going wherever he likes, so long as he pays me fust!

Pol. You've no right to touch the man, nor yet his bag; so be careful, that's all I tell you!

The E. G. (with maudlin enthusiasm). Pleeshman's perfelly ri'! Pleeshman always knowsh besht!

[Tries to pat Policeman on back.

Pol. (his disgust reaching a climax). 'Ere, don't you go pawin' me about—for I won't 'ave it! If I'm right, it's more than what you are, anyhow! Now be off with you, wherever it is you're going to!

Cabman (desperate). But look 'ere—can't you take his name and address?

Pol. (rising to the occasion). Ah! that's what I was waitin' for! Now you've ast me—now I kin act! (Pulls out a pocket-book full of dirty memoranda, and a stumpy pencil.) Now then, Sir, your name, if you please?

The E. G. (sleepily). Shtupid thing a-do, but qui' forgot.... Come out 'ithout mi' name, 'shmornin'!

Pol. (sternly). That won't do with Me, you know. What's your name? Out with it!

The E. G. (evidently making a wild shot at it). Fergushon.

[Smiles, as if he feels sure the Policeman will be pleased with a name like that.

Pol. John? George? James?—or what?

The E. G. You can purr 'em all down t' me—it don' marrer!

Pol. (briskly). Where do you live, Mr. Ferguson?

The E. G. (mechanically). Shirty-one, Lushington Street, Gargleshbury Park.

Pol. (writing it down, and giving leaf to Cabman). There, will that do for

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