By, his red coat lighting up the grayish
mass about him like a livecoal in an ashheap; a policeman escorting
a drunk to quarters for the night - not, mind you, escorting him
in a clanging, rushing patrol wagon, which would serve to attract
public attention to the distressing state of the overcome one, but
conveying him quietly, unostentatiously, surreptitiously almost,
in a small-wheeled vehicle partaking somewhat of the nature of a
baby carriage and somewhat of the nature of a pushcart.
The policeman shoves this along the road jailward and the drunk
lies at rest in it, stretched out full length, with a neat rubber
bedspread drawn up over his prostrate form to screen him from
drafts and save his face from the gaze of the vulgar. Drunkards
are treated with the tenderest consideration in London; for, as
you know, Britons never will be slaves - though some of them in the
presence of a title give such imitations of being slaves as might
fool even so experienced a judge as the late Simon Legree; and
- as perchance you may also have heard - an Englishman's souse is
his castle. So in due state they ride him and his turreted souse
to the station house in a perambulator.
From midnight to daylight the taxicabs by the countless swarm will
be charging about in every direction - charging, moreover, at the
rate of eight pence a mile.
