You'll excuse me, Mr.--I haven't the pleasure to remember
your name at this moment. I connect it with my Maria's two
pianners--something between the Broadwood and the Collard and
Collard--you'll excuse me, but putting myself in the place of the
angel Gabriel, merely for the sake of argument, this is the sort of
way it would take _me_!'
"Before I could jump for him, Otty, he lifted his hand and flung
something--I don't know what it was, for a certainty, but I believe
it was the 'Blanco' tin of sulphuretted hydrogen, that he had been
nursing all the way from the 'Catalafina.' . . . At any rate the
missile hit. There was an agreeable crash of plate glass, and we ran
for our lives.
"You know the long rank of taxis on the slope of Piccadilly.
We pelted for it. Before an alarm whistle sounded I had gained the
fifth in the row. The drivers were all gathered in their shelter,
probably discussing politics. I made for a car, cried to Farrell to
jump in, hoicked up the works like mad, and made a spring for the
seat and the steering-gear. Amid the alarm-whistles sounding from
the Ritz I seemed to catch a shrill scream close behind me, and
looked around to make sure that my man was inside.
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