tration on the cover of Cousin Egbert's art book. He himself regarded it with interest, though I fancy he did not recognize it, for, waving his cigar toward it, he announced to his friend:
"The Public Library." His friend surveyed the building with every sign of approval.
"That Carnegie is a hot sport, all right," he declared warmly. "I'll bet that shack set him back some."
"Three rousing cheers!" said Cousin Egbert, without point that I could detect.
We now crossed their Thames over what would have been Westminster Bridge, I fancy, and were presently bowling through a sort of Battersea part of the city. The streets grew quite narrow and the shops smaller, and I found myself wondering not without alarm what sort of restaurant our abrupt friend had chosen.
"Three rousing cheers!" said Cousin Egbert from time to time, with almost childish delight.
Debouching from a narrow street again into what the French term a boulevard, we halted before what was indeed a restaurant, for several tables were laid on the pavement before the door, but I saw at once that it was anything but a nice place. "Au Rendezvous des Cochers Fideles," read the announcement on the flap of the awning, and truly enough it was a low resort frequented by cabbies—"The meeting-place of faithful coachmen." Along the curb half a score of horses were eating from their bags, while their drivers lounged before the place, eating, drinking, and conversing excitedly in their grotesque jargon.
We descended, in spite of the repellent aspect of the place, and our driver went to the foot of the line, where he
