You'd not know what to do without me, and shan't drive me off. "Taber," said the manager; "Taber is the name. \" He paused in awkward silence as they walked outside the red double doors. The worst was over now. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. And there was another matter. Yet an indiscriminating, wrong-headed world gave such fellows all sorts of distinctions. His quiet, kindly smile implied his serene disbelief in any confessible thing. Kneebone, who had drained his glass to the restoration of the house of Stuart, and the downfall of the house of Hanover, more frequently than was consistent with prudence, consented; and the trio set out for Wych Street, where they arrived in the jolliest humour possible.
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