Digital primer

Six coachmen
cutting and storming, six cads sawing the air, sixteen ladies in flowers
screaming, six-and-twenty sturdy passengers swearing they will 'fine them
all,' and Mr. Sponge is the only cool person in the scene. He doesn't rush
into the throng and 'jump in,' for fear the 'bus should extricate itself
and drive on without him; he doesn't make confusion worse confounded by
intimating his behest; he doesn't soil his bright boots by stepping off the
kerb-stone; but, quietly waiting the evaporation of the steam, and the
disentanglement of the vehicles, by the smallest possible sign in the
world, given at the opportune moment, and a steady adhesion to the flags,
the 'bus is obliged either to 'come to,' or lose the fare, and he steps
quietly in, and squeezes along to the far end, as though intent on going
the whole hog of the journey.
Away they rumble up the Edgeware Road; the gradual emergence from the brick
and mortar of London being marked as well by the telling out of passengers
as by the increasing distances between the houses.


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