"You should have seen how he whipped into
his horse and made off double quick. Then,
there's a saucy cheeky sort of a chap as drives a
Hansom says to me:

"'Hullo, John!' he says, 'what are you going
to do when the gate's down? Start a baked
tatur can, or go into the catch-'em-alive-oh
line?'

"' No, neither,' I says, ' but I don't mind
telling you what I intend to be up to. I'm
going to do something to get put into the
house of correction, and when I come out
with a ticket-of-leave I'll be fully qualified to
drive a cab.'"

While Mr. Brown was thus discoursing in the
most communicative manner, he was constantly
under the necessity of breaking off short to run
and take the tolls; or, if it were not a vehicle
of sufficient importance for his own notice, to
shout to his two boys to take the tolls for him.
And the two boys were always scurrying out
into the roads and scurrying back again to drop
coppers into the capacious pockets of Mr.
Brown's white apron.

"There's some folks think, sir, that toll-keeping
is an easy idle kind of life. They only see
me for a minute as they go by, and that's all
they know about it. If they was to stand here
fourteen hours a day, as I do, they'd know
different. You're never at rest a minute;
there's always something a-going through. It's
no use to sit down; you can't sit for two
minutes together; and getting up and down like
that is very trying to the legs. I know what
toll-keeping is, sir. I've been in it all my life.
I was born in a toll-gate down at Pangbourne—
it wasn't like this, you know, it had rooms and
all kinds of convenience—and that, perhaps, was
easy; but here in London it's almost as bad as
the treadmill; that is, I should say it was, sir;
of course I don't know for certain. It's not
what it was, toll-keeping. Everything's
redooced so, now-a-days. We're obliged to make
a reduction for taking a quantity. Why, there's
forty 'busses goes through this gate, each, on a
average, fourteen times every day, and we take
the lot for ten pound a week. It would be more
than ten times that, if we were to make them
pay every time. But if we had done that, there
wouldn't have been half the 'busses on this road.
When a company thinks of starting, they come to
us and say, ' What will you take us for?' And
we say, so much; and if it's what they can afford,
they come on the road, and if it's more than they
can afford, they don't. But we're always liberal,
sir. We let the cabs pass free when they're
empty; that ain't a right, sir; it's a privilege
which we allow them. And what's the return
they make for that privilege? Why, when
they've got a fare they go round the crescent,
and then when they're empty they come back
through the gate. That's what a cabman calls
gratitude. I've known them flash little bits of
newspaper cut up to look like tickets, to the
boys when they've been larking and not taking
much notice. I've been done that way myself,
once or twice; I've caught a few out, though.
I remember my old master, Mr. Levy, the
contractor, bowling a cab-driver out in fine style.
The man, after driving him more than a hundred
yards on the Trust, took him sharp up the side
of the crescent, and so evaded the toll. When
he set Mr. Levy down at his house, and he'd
paid him his right fare, he says, 'Ain't you
going to give me the twopence for evading the
gate?' ' No,' Mr. Levy says, ' I won't do
that, but as I'm the contractor for the tolls, I'll
give you a summons as early as I can to-morrow
morning.' And he did too; but he was a good
sort, and wouldn't have taken no notice if the
man hadn't been cheeky. I used to collect the
post-duty under Mr. Levy; that was in the old
coaching times, before railways. My station
was down near King's-cross, and I used to take
the tickets as the post-chaises went by, some of
them bound for Gretna-green; for, somehow or
other, sir, lovers were fond of running away to
be married when it was a hard job to do it; but
now, when there's railways and it's easy, they
don't seem to care about it. Human nature, I
suppose, sir? But taking post-duty was better
than toll-keeping. I used to get a penny on
every ticket, and I've often earned as much as
eight pound a week. But the post-duty was
done away with, and now the tolls is to be done
away with. This gate has had a good many
shoves at one time or another. It was up at St.
Giles's once; but they shoved it on gradually to
here, and now it's to be shoved right out into
the country somewhere. No; I don't think I
shall go with it; but I ain't afraid. I've always
found that when one gate shuts, another opens.
A gent said to me to-day, ' Why, Mr. Brown'
he says, ' with your figure and your aprons, you
would be a credit to Doctors' Commons.' I'll
drop into something, I dare say. I've been
taking stock of the traffic on this road for the
railway bill, and perhaps I'll get a job to take
tickets for Puffing Billy. The 'busses and the
cabs are all rejoicing because the tolls is to be
done away with; but I tell them it will be all the
worse for them in the end. Puffing Billy will
come and knock them all off the road. No; I
don't pay a rent for the toll. The contractor
trusts to me to do the best I can for him."

After an interval for refreshment and the
quiet digestion of all this toll lore, I revisited
the gate at about eleven o'clock. The excitement
was intense now. The little house was
surrounded by a crowd of two or three hundred
persons, male and female, the youthful portion
showing a strong disposition to dance. Many
of Mr. Brown's personal friends had arrived and
were inside the toll-house, drinking Mr. Brown's
health. Beer was coming over from the public-
house—in pots at first, in cans presently,
eventually, as the hour of doom approached, in
pails. Presenting myself at the door of the
house, I was refused admission, but, on being
recognised by Mr. Brown, was admitted—to the
great envy of the unprivileged classes outside,
who seemed to regard me somewhat in the light
of one who had the entrée at court. Inside,
Mr. Brown's friends were drinking out of the