I.
My friend X. is normally the mildest of men. His temper is under perfect
control; and in his favourite part of the angels' advocate he finds
palliations and makes allowances for all those defections in the
servants of the public which goad men to fury and which, since the War
came in to supply incompetence with a cloak and a pretext, have been
exasperatingly on the increase. Thus, serene and considerate, has X.
gone his uncomplaining way for years.
But yesterday I found him on the kerb in the Strand inarticulate and
purple with rage. His face was hardly recognisable, so distorted
were those ordinarily placid features. His eyes were fixed on a
receding taxi.
Fearing that he might be ill I took his arm; but he flung himself free.
"Don't touch me," he said; "I can't bear it." Having reached a point in
life when tact is second nature, I waited silently near him until the
storm should have passed.
His eyes were still fixed.
After a short time he recovered sufficiently to turn to me and explain.
"I could have killed that fellow," he said.
"What fellow?"
"That taxi-driver. He went by slowly with his flag up and wouldn't look
at me. I hailed him, and I know he heard, but he wouldn't look at me.
Now I don't mind when they point, or make any kind of sign that they
don't want to be hired, or say that they have no petrol, even if I don't
believe it; but when they won't turn their heads or pay any attention
whatever I could kill them.
Pages:
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37