From the Cabby's Seat

The cabby has his own point of view. It is more single-minded, perhaps, than that of any other profession. From his high, swaying seat, he sees his fellow men as wandering particles, of no account except when they have the urge to travel. He is Jehu, and you are just cargo in transit. Whether you are a president or a tramp, to the cabby you are only a fare. He picks you up, cracks his whip, rattles your bones, and sets you down.

When it comes time to pay, if you show you know the legal rates, you learn what contempt means. If you discover you've left your wallet behind, you realize that Dante's imagination was mild compared to the cabby's fury.

It is not an outlandish theory that the cabby's single-mindedness and his focused view of life come from the hansom cab's peculiar design. The rooster sits up high like Jupiter on a seat that cannot be shared, holding your fate between two straps of unpredictable leather. Helpless, ridiculous, confined, bobbing like a toy, you sit like a rat in a trap—you, before whom butlers bow on solid ground—and must squeak upward through a slit in your moving coffin to make your small wishes known.

Then, in a cab, you are not even a passenger; you are contents. You are cargo at sea, and the "cherub that sits up aloft" knows Davy Jones's street and number by heart.

One night there were sounds of celebration in the big brick tenement next door to McGary's Family Café. The sounds seemed to come from the Walsh family's apartment. The sidewalk was blocked by a bunch of curious neighbors, who opened a path now and then for a hurried messenger bringing from McGary's things needed for the party. The sidewalk crowd was commenting and discussing, not trying to hide the news that Norah Walsh was getting married.

In time, the merrymakers burst out onto the sidewalk. The uninvited guests surrounded them, and into the night air rose joyful cries, congratulations, laughter, and all sorts of noises born from McGary's drinks for the wedding scene.

Right by the curb stood Jerry O'Donovan's cab. Jerry was called a night hawk, but no more shiny or cleaner hansom ever closed its doors on fine lace and November violets. And Jerry's horse! I'm not exaggerating when I say he was stuffed with oats until one of those old ladies who leave their dishes unwashed at home and go around having expressmen arrested would have smiled—yes, smiled—to see him.

Among the shifting, noisy, pulsing crowd, you could catch glimpses of Jerry's top hat, battered by years of wind and rain; his nose like a carrot, battered by the playful children of millionaires and by stubborn fares; his brass-buttoned green coat, admired around McGary's. It was clear Jerry had taken over the job of his cab and was carrying a "load." Indeed, you could say he was like a bread wagon, if we believe what a young onlooker said when he remarked, "Jerry has got a bun."

From somewhere in the crowd on the street, or else from the thin stream of people walking by, a young woman hurried over and stood by the cab. Jerry's sharp, professional eye caught the movement. He made a lunge for the cab, knocking over three or four onlookers and himself—no! He grabbed the cap of a fire hydrant and kept his footing. Like a sailor climbing the rigging during a squall, Jerry mounted his professional seat. Once he was up there, McGary's liquids were no match for him. He swayed on the mast of his ship, as safe as a steeplejack rigged to the flagpole of a skyscraper.

"Step in, lady," said Jerry, gathering his reins. The young woman stepped into the cab; the doors shut with a bang; Jerry's whip cracked in the air; the crowd on the curb scattered, and the fine hansom dashed away across town.

When the oat-fed horse had slowed a bit from his first burst of speed, Jerry opened the trap in the roof and called down through the opening in the voice of a cracked megaphone, trying to be pleasant:

"Where, now, will ye be drivin' to?"

"Anywhere you please," came the answer, musical and contented.

"'Tis drivin' for pleasure she is," thought Jerry. And then he suggested, as a matter of course:

"Take a little drive around the park, lady. 'Twill be elegant cool and fine."

"Just as you like," answered the fare, pleasantly.

The cab headed for Fifth Avenue and sped up that perfect street. Jerry bounced and swayed in his seat. The powerful drinks from McGary's were stirred up and sent new fumes to his head. He sang an old song of Killisnook and waved his whip like a baton.

Inside the cab, the fare sat up straight on the cushions, looking left and right at the lights and houses. Even in the shadowy cab, her eyes shone like stars at twilight.

When they reached Fifty-ninth Street, Jerry's head was bobbing and his reins were slack. But his horse turned in through the park gate and began the old, familiar nightly round. And then the fare leaned back, entranced, and breathed deep the clean, wholesome smells of grass, leaves, and flowers. And the wise beast in the shafts, knowing the way, settled into his steady, by-the-hour pace and kept to the right side of the road.

Habit also fought successfully against Jerry's growing drowsiness. He raised the hatch of his storm-tossed vessel and made the inquiry that cabbies do make in the park.

"Like shtop at the Casino, lady? Geezer refreshments, 'n listen to the music. Everybody shtops."

"I think that would be nice," said the fare.

They pulled up with a jolt at the Casino entrance. The cab doors flew open. The fare stepped right out onto the ground. At once she was caught in a web of lovely music and dazzled by a scene of lights and colors. Someone slipped a little square card into her hand with a number printed on it—34. She looked around and saw her cab twenty yards away, already lining up in its place among the waiting carriages, cabs, and motor cars. And then a man who seemed to be all shirtfront danced backward before her; and next she was seated at a little table by a railing over which climbed a jasmine vine.

There seemed to be a wordless invitation to buy something; she looked at a small collection of coins in a thin purse, and decided she had enough to order a glass of beer. There she sat, taking it all in—the new-colored, new-shaped life in a fairy palace in an enchanted wood.

At fifty tables sat princes and queens dressed in all the silks and gems of the world. And now and then one of them would look curiously at Jerry's fare. They saw a plain figure dressed in pink silk of a kind called "foulard," and a plain face that wore a look of love of life that the queens envied.

Twice the long hands of the clocks went around. The fine folks thinned from their outdoor thrones and buzzed or clattered away in their fancy vehicles. The music retreated into cases of wood and bags of leather and felt. Waiters removed tablecloths pointedly near the plain figure sitting almost alone.

Jerry's fare got up and held out her numbered card simply:

"Is there anything coming on the ticket?" she asked.

A waiter told her it was her cab check, and that she should give it to the man at the entrance. This man took it and called the number. Only three hansoms stood in line. The driver of one of them went and woke Jerry, who was asleep in his cab. He swore deeply, climbed up to the driver's seat, and steered his craft to the stand. His fare got in, and the cab whirled into the cool depths of the park along the shortest way home.

At the gate a glimmer of reason in the form of sudden suspicion seized Jerry's muddled mind. A couple of things occurred to him. He stopped his horse, raised the trap, and dropped his phonographic voice, like a lead weight, through the opening:

"I want to see four dollars before goin' any further on th' trip. Have ye got th' dough?"

"Four dollars!" laughed the fare, softly. "Dear me, no. I've only got a few pennies and a dime or two."

Jerry slammed the trap shut and whipped his oat-fed horse. The clatter of hooves strangled but could not drown the sound of his swearing. He shouted choking and gurgling curses at the starry sky; he cut viciously with his whip at passing vehicles; he flung fierce and ever-changing oaths and insults along the streets, so that a late truck driver, crawling homeward, heard and was embarrassed. But he knew his remedy, and made for it at a gallop.

At the police station, with the green lights beside the steps, he pulled up. He flung open the cab doors and tumbled heavily to the ground.

"Come on, you," he said, roughly.

His fare came out with the dreamy Casino smile still on her plain face. Jerry took her by the arm and led her into the police station. A gray-mustached sergeant looked keenly across the desk. He and the cabby were old acquaintances.

"Sargeant," began Jerry in his old, raucous, martyred, thunderous voice of complaint. "I've got a fare here that—"

Jerry paused. He drew a knotted, red hand across his forehead. The fog from McGary's was beginning to clear.

"A fare, sargeant," he continued, with a grin, "that I want to introduce to ye. It's me wife that I married at ould man Walsh's this evening. And a devil of a time we had, 'tis true. Shake hands wid th' sargeant, Norah, and we'll be off to home."

Before stepping into the cab, Norah sighed deeply.

"I've had such a nice time, Jerry," she said.