'Ow would _you_ like--" His strained, extinct voice invested his utterance with a character of vehement secrecy.

Stevie's vacant gaze was changing slowly into dread.
"You may well look! Till three and four o'clock in the morning.

Cold and 'ungry.

Looking for fares.

Drunks." His jovial purple cheeks bristled with white hairs; and like Virgil's Silenus, who, his face smeared with the juice of berries, discoursed of Olympian Gods to the innocent shepherds of Sicily, he talked to Stevie of domestic matters and the affairs of men whose sufferings are great and immortality by no means assured.
"I am a night cabby, I am," he whispered, with a sort of boastful exasperation.