He was a man from whom I derived a good deal of amusement one way and
another. Thinking of him brings back to my mind a somewhat odd incident.
One afternoon, I jumped upon his 'bus in the Seven Sisters Road. An
elderly Frenchman was the only other occupant of the vehicle. "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.
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