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"Bloom-buree Ske-warr," he then cried to the cabman "numero trentotto!" "Bloomsbury Square," I roared on my own account, "I'll show you the house when we get there, only drive like be-damned!" My companion lay back gasping in his corner. The small glass told me that my own face was pretty red. "A nice show!" I cried; "and not a word can you tell me. Didn't you bring me a note?"
Plop, plop, plop; ting, ling, ling; bell and horse-shoes, horse-shoes and bell, until the colossal figure of C. J. Fox in a grimy toga spelt Bloomsbury Square with my watch still wanting three minutes to the hour. "What number?" cried the good fellow over-head. "Trentotto, trentotto," said my guide, but he was looking to the right, and I bundled him out to show the house on foot.
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