Cab proprietors receive applications for work from all classes of men. One morning a particularly dissipated-looking fellow strolled into a cab-yard, not far from King's Cross, and asked the proprietor for a job, mentioning that he had driven most things in India from a pony-trap to a four-in-hand, and did not anticipate the slightest difficulty in driving a cab. The proprietor observed that it required some nerve to drive a cab in London. "Nerve!" the applicant exclaimed. "Well, I don't think I'm deficient in that. One morning in India I woke and found a cobra coiled up on my bed. It wasn't a nice position to find myself in, but I'd been in many a worse fix and didn't lose my presence of mind. I'm a bit of ventriloquist, and as there was a big image of some old Hindoo god at the other end of
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Chapter VI
Gentlemen cabmen—An applicant's nerve—The doctor-cabby—John Cockram—A drunken cabman's horse
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