It was
a miserable night. The rain and snow were falling together, and
freezing as they fell. The sporting editor got out to send his message
to the _Press_ office, and then lighting a cigar, and turning up the
collar of his great-coat, curled up in the corner of the cab.
"Wake me when we get there, Gallegher," he said. He knew he had a long
ride, and much rapid work before him, and he was preparing for the
strain.
To Gallegher the idea of going to sleep seemed almost criminal. From
the dark corner of the cab his eyes shone with excitement, and with
the awful joy of anticipation. He glanced every now and then to where
the sporting editor's cigar shone in the darkness, and watched it as
it gradually burnt more dimly and went out. The lights in the shop
windows threw a broad glare across the ice on the pavements, and the
lights from the lamp-posts tossed the distorted shadow of the cab, and
the horse, and the motionless driver, sometimes before and sometimes
behind them.
After half an hour Gallegher slipped down to the bottom of the cab and
dragged out a lap-robe, in which he wrapped himself. It was growing
colder, and the damp, keen wind swept in through the cracks until the
window-frames and woodwork were cold to the touch.
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