public-house which at that time was the starting-point for that route.
The driver, facetiously adjuring his colleague on the 'bus, which was just moving off, to get "higher up," unfastened his waist-strap, and, casting aside his multifarious wraps, descended. Stamping his feet to promote circulation, he was about to enter the bar. Suddenly he remembered that the conductor, after collecting the fares, had left the vehicle at the corner of the Haymarket for the purpose of walking the remainder of the journey—a proceeding not unusual in cold weather, when one's hands become numbed, and a walk proves a welcome exercise.
It occurred to him that some one might still be inside. His surmise proved correct for, ensconced in a corner in the front of the conveyance, sat a well-dressed, middle-aged man. His fur-trimmed overcoat was unbuttoned, his head had fallen forward upon his chest, and he was apparently slumbering soundly.
"Charin' Cross, sir," shouted the plethoric old driver, peering in at the door.
The man showed no sign of awakening.
Sleeping passengers, who at their journey's end awake irate and in great consternation at finding themselves a mile or two past their destination, are the daily experience of every omnibus conductor; and it is a remarkable fact that the rattle, combined with the rocking of the vehicle, is conducive to slumber.
Chuckling at the unconscious man's probable chagrin, the driver entered the conveyance, and, grasping his shoulder, shook him violently, exclaiming in a loud voice—
"'Ere y'are! Charin' Cross, sir. Wake up, guv'nor, please."
The passenger did not stir. His arm dropped inertly
