A few nights ago there was a gale. In spite of weather we went to the Empire music hall. In the usual midnight altercation at Piccadilly Circus we failed to get inside seats on the omnibus and sat on the inclement top of the vehicle - a disconsolate row of four, cowering behind waterproof aprons (which were not waterproof) and exchanging fragments of pessimistic philosophy. We knew we were taking cold but with increasing numbness came resignation.We started to take an interest in the imperturbable driver, never speaking, never stirring, only answering like an automaton to the conductor's bell. We could see only his hat, some grey hairs, his rotund cape, and his enormous gloved hands. For mile after mile he drove forward in Trappist silence 'til we were verging on Putney, then at last, without moving his head, he joined in the conversation.
"I've been out in worse" he said. "Yes, we gets used to it. But we gets so that we has to live out of doors. If I got an indoor job I should die. I have to go out for a walk afore I can eat my breakfast. I've driven these roads for eight and twenty year, and the only pal I've found is Cod Liver Oil. From September to March I takes it, and I never has rheumatism and I never has colds, nor nothing of that sort. I give it my children ever since they was born, and now I'm blessed if they don't cry for it."He finished. he had imparted his wisdom, delivered his message, and with the fine instinct denied to so many literary artists he knew when to be silent. We asked him to stop and he did so without a word. "Good night" we said. But he had done with speech for that evening and gave us no reply. We alighted. The bus rolled away into the mirror-like vista of the street. The wind blew.
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