THE BRASS BOWL
"Don't mention it, sir; I've carried you hoften before this evenin', and—excuse my sayin' so—I never 'ad a fare as tipped 'andsomer. It's a real pleasure, sir, to be of service."
"Thank you," returned Maitland, eying him in speculative wise. "I wonder"
The man was a rough, burly Englishman of one of the most intelligent, if not intellectual, kind; the British cabby, as a type, has few superiors for sheer quickness of wit and understanding. This man had been sharpened and tempered by his contact with American conditions. His eyes were shrewd, his face honest if weather-beaten, his attitude respectful.
"I've another use for you to-night," Maitland decided, "if you are at liberty and—discreet?" The final word was a question, flung over his shoulder as he turned toward the escritoire.
"Yes, sir," said the man thoughtfully. "I allus can drive, sir, even when I'm drinkin' 'ardest and can't see nothink."
"Yes? You've been drinking to-night?" Maitland smiled quietly, standing at the small writing-
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