CHAPTER IV.
The London cabman's occupation consists in dodging thoroughfares under repair.
Numbers of dingy streets have been flung about to help him.

There is one of these in Bloomsbury, which was originally discovered by a student while looking for the British Museum.

It runs a hundred yards in a straight line, then stops, like a stranger who has lost his way, and hurries by another route out of the neighbourhood.
The houses are dull, except one, just where it doubles, which is gloomy.
This house is divided into sets of chambers and has a new frontage, but it no longer lets well.

A few years ago there were two funerals from it within a fortnight, and soon afterward another of the tenants was found at the foot of the stair with his neck broken.

These fatalities gave the house a bad name, as such things do in London.
It was here that Andrew's patron, the president, lived.
To the outcast from work to get an object in life is to be born again.
Andrew bustled to the president's chambers on the Saturday night following the events already described, with his chest well set.
His springy step echoed of wages in the hearts of the unemployed.
Envious eyes, following his swaggering staff, could not see that but a few days before he had been as the thirteenth person at a dinner-party.
Such a change does society bring about when it empties a chair for the superfluous man.
It may be wondered that he felt so sure of himself, for the night had still to decide his claims.
Andrew, however, had thought it all out in his solitary lodgings, and had put fear from him.