I stole it late one night from outside a public-house in Dean Street, and the first thing that happened to me was that I was hailed in Golden Square by an old lady surrounded by three children, two of them crying and the third one half asleep.

Before I could get away she had shot the brats into the cab, taken my number, paid me, so she said, a shilling over the legal fare, and directed me to an address a little beyond what she called North Kensington.

As a matter of fact, the place turned out to be the other side of Willesden.

The horse was tired, and the journey took us well over two hours.

It was the slowest lark I ever remember being concerned in.