"Au Rendezvous des Cochers
Fideles," read the announcement on the flap of the awning, and truly
enough it was a low resort frequented by cabbies--"The meeting-place
of faithful coachmen." Along the curb half a score of horses were
eating from their bags, while their drivers lounged before the place,
eating, drinking, and conversing excitedly in their grotesque jargon.
We descended, in spite of the repellent aspect of the place, and our
driver went to the foot of the line, where he fed his own horse.
Cousin Egbert, already at one of the open-air tables, was rapping
smartly for a waiter.
"What's the matter with having just one little one before grub?" asked
the Tuttle person as we joined him. He had a most curious fashion of
speech. I mean to say, when he suggested anything whatsoever he
invariably wished to know what might be the matter with it.
"Veesky-soda!" demanded Cousin Egbert of the serving person who now
appeared, "and ask your driver to have one," he then urged his friend.
The latter hereupon addressed the cabman who had now come up.
"Vooley-voos take something!" he demanded, and the cabman appeared to
accept.
"Vooley-voos your friends take something, too?" he demanded further,
with a gesture that embraced all the cabmen present, and these, too,
appeared to accept with the utmost cordiality.
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