"You vil not forget me," the Frenchman was saying as I entered, "I desire Sharing Cross." "I won't forget yer," answered the conductor, "you shall 'ave yer Sharing Cross.

Don't make a fuss about it." "That's the third time 'ee's arst me not to forget 'im," he remarked to me in a stentorian aside; "'ee don't giv' yer much chance of doin' it, does 'ee ?" At the corner of the Holloway Road we drew up, and our conductor began to shout after the manner of his species: "Charing Cross--Charing Cross--'ere yer are--Come along, lady--Charing Cross." The little Frenchman jumped up, and prepared to exit; the conductor pushed him back.
"Sit down and don't be silly," he said; "this ain't Charing Cross." The Frenchman looked puzzled, but collapsed meekly.

We picked up a few passengers, and proceeded on our way.

Half a mile up the Liverpool Road a lady stood on the kerb regarding us as we passed with that pathetic mingling of desire and distrust which is the average woman's attitude towards conveyances of all kinds.

Our conductor stopped.
"Where d'yer want to go to ?" he asked her severely--"Strand--Charing Cross ?" The Frenchman did not hear or did not understand the first part of the speech, but he caught the words "Charing Cross," and bounced up and out on to the step.