And just then the cab suddenly stopped, and there was his persecutor rapping on the front glass. John let it down, and beheld the port-wine countenance inflamed with intellectual triumph.
'I ken wha ye are!' cried the husky voice. 'I mind ye now. Ye're a Nucholson. I drove ye to Hermiston to a Christmas party, and ye came back on the box, and I let ye drive.'
It is a fact. John knew the man; they had been even friends. His enemy, he now remembered, was a fellow of great good nature - endless good nature - with a boy; why not with a man? Why not appeal to his better side? He grasped at the new hope.
'Great Scott! and so you did,' he cried, as if in a transport of delight, his voice sounding false in his own ears. 'Well, if that's so, I've something to say to you. I'll just get out, I gue
