Tiger, Tiger. Philip Caveney

      On this particular morning, however, the trishaw was uncharacteristically late. It was twelve-thirty, and Harry was just beginning to think about walking out in search of a cab when he saw the old man pedalling wearily up to the garden gate. Harry hurried out of the house and was concerned to see that the driver looked rather ill. His thin face was more haggard than ever, his eyes were ringed with redness, and there was an overall weariness about him that suggested he was far from healthy.

      ‘Sorry for lateness, Tuan,’ he croaked.

      ‘Sorry nothing! You look terrible. Are you ill?’

      The old man shrugged. ‘It is nothing, Tuan … come, climb in. You are late …’

      Harry shook his head.

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ he retorted. ‘You can’t drive me anywhere in that condition.’ He stepped forward and put his hand on the old man’s forehead. ‘Good lord, you’ve got a fever. You should be in bed.’

      ‘No, Tuan, I must work. Please, we go now, yes?’

      Harry frowned, thought for a moment. Then a solution occurred to him.

      ‘Here, come along, off the bike.’ He grasped the driver by the elbow and helped him down. ‘Now, you climb in,’ he insisted.

      ‘But Tuan … what …? Surely, you cannot …?’ Harry pushed him firmly but gently into the passenger seat and then climbed astride the bicycle.

      ‘Let me see now,’ he murmured. ‘There can’t be all that much to it …’

      ‘Tuan, you cannot do this! It is not proper,’ protested the driver, but Harry waved him to silence.