Inside the cab the fare sat up straight on the cushions， looking to right and left at the lights and houses. Even in the shadowed hansom her eyes shone like stars at twilight.
When they reached Fifty-ninth street Jerry's head was bobbing and his reins were slack. But his horse turned in through the park gate and began the old familiar nocturnal round. And then the fare leaned back， entranced， and breathed deep the clean， wholesome odours of grass and leaf and bloom. And the wise beast in the shafts， knowing his ground， struck into his by-the-hour gait and kept to the right of the road.
Habit also struggled successfully against Jerry's increasing torpor.
He raised the hatch of his storm-tossed vessel and made the inquiry that cabbies do make in the park.
"Like shtop at the Cas-sino， lady？ Gezzer r'freshm's， 'n lish'n the music. Ev'body shtops."
"I think that would be nice，" said the fare.
They reined up with a plunge at the Casino entrance. The cab doors flew open. The fare stepped directly upon the floor. At once she was caught in a web of ravishing music and dazzled by a panorama of lights and colours. Some one slipped a little square card into her hand on which was printed a number--34. She looked around and saw her cab twenty yards away already lining up in its place among the waiting mass of carriages， cabs and motor cars. And then a man who seemed to be all shirt-front danced backward before her； and next she was seated at a little table by a railing over which climbed a jessamine vine.
There seemed to be a wordless invitation to purchase； she consulted a collection of small coins in a thin purse， and received from them license to order a glass of beer. There she sat， inhaling and absorbing it all--the new-coloured， new-shaped life in a fairy palace in an enchanted wood.
At fifty tables sat princes and queens clad in all the silks and gems of the world. And now and then one of them would look curiously at Jerry's fare. They saw a plain figure dressed in a pink silk of the kind that is tempered by the word "foulard，" and a plain face that wore a look of love of life that the queens envied.
Twice the long hands of the clocks went round， Royalties thinned from their ~al fresco~ thrones， and buzzed or clattered away in their vehicles of state. The music retired into cases of wood and bags of leather and baize. Waiters removed cloths pointedly near the plain figure sitting almost alone.
Jerry's fare rose， and held out her numbered card simply：
"Is there anything coming on the ticket？" she asked.
A waiter told her it was her cab check， and that she should give it to the man at the entrance. This man took it， and called the number.
Only three hansoms stood in line. The driver of one of them went and routed out Jerry asleep in his cab. He swore deeply， climbed to the captain's bridge and steered his craft to the pier. His fare entered， and the cab whirled into the cool fastnesses of the park along the shortest homeward cuts.
At the gate a glimmer of reason in the form of sudden suspicion seized upon Jerry's beclouded mind. One or two things occurred to him. He stopped his horse， raised the trap and dropped his phonographic voice， like a lead plummet， through the aperture：
"I want to see four dollars before goin' any further on th' thrip.
Have ye got th' dough？"
"Four dollars！" laughed the fare， softly， "dear me， no. I've only got a few pennies and a dime or two."
Jerry shut down the trap and slashed his oat-fed horse. The clatter of hoofs strangled but could not drown the sound of his profanity.
He shouted choking and gurgling curses at the starry heavens； he cut viciously with his whip at passing vehicles； he scattered fierce and ever-changing oaths and imprecations along the streets， so that a late truck driver， crawling homeward， heard and was abashed. But he knew his recourse， and made for it at a gallop.
At the house with the green lights beside the steps he pulled up. He flung wide the cab doors and tumbled heavily to the ground.
"Come on， you，" he said， roughly.
His fare came forth with the Casino dreamy smile still on her plain face. Jerry took her by the arm and led her into the police station.
A gray-moustached sergeant looked keenly across the desk. He and the cabby were no strangers.
"Sargeant，" began Jerry in his old raucous， martyred， thunderous tones of complaint. "I've got a fare here that--"
Jerry paused. He drew a knotted， red hand across his brow. The fog set up by McGary was beginning to clear away.
"A fare， sargeant，" he continued， with a grin， "that I want to inthroduce to ye. It's me wife that I married at ould man Walsh's this avening. And a divil of a time we had， 憈is thrue. Shake hands wid th' sargeant， Norah， and we'll be off to home."
Before stepping into the cab Norah sighed profoundly.
"I've had such a nice time， Jerry，" said she.
