Goes out straightway, and, leisurely leaning his arms on the open window of a cab in waiting, looks in at Mr. Dolls: who has brought his own atmosphere with him, and would seem from its odour to have brought it, for convenience of carriage, in a rum-cask.

“Now Dolls, wake up!”

“Mist Wrayburn? Drection! Fifteen shillings!”

After carefully reading the dingy scrap of paper handed to him, and as carefully tucking it into his waistcoat pocket, Eugene tells out the money; beginning incautiously by telling the first shilling into Mr. Dolls’s hand, which instantly jerks it out of window; and ending by telling the fifteen shillings on the seat.

“Give him a ride back to Charing Cross, sharp boy, and there get rid of him.”