The author was going to London all alone in his car. He saw a man thumbing for lift. The hitchhiker asked the author if he was going to London. The writer invited him to come into the car. The author said that he was a writer and what did the hitchhiker do? Hitchhiker said that he did a skilled job. He said that the secret of life was to become expert in something which was harder to do. The hitch hiker enquired about the maximum speed of the car. The writer said it was 129m.p.h. The hitch hiker said that the car would not go at the speed as all the car sellers are liars. But the writer was sure that his car could. So the hitch hiker asked him to prove it.
The writer pressed his foot down on the accelerator. It was at 120m.p.h. but at that very moment the driver heard the scream of police siren. A police on a motorcycle went past them and raised a hand for them to stop. The hitch hiker advised the author more than it was needed. The police man enquired why they were in a hurry and did they know the speed limit in the country? The writer said it was 70m.p.h. The policeman asked him for the driving license, and then filled in the date, the time, and the detail of his offence on the penalty ticket, tore out the top copy and gave it to the writer. Then the policeman turned to the hitchhiker and asked his name, address, proof, profession and the name of the employer.
The policeman said to the author that his license was going to be cancelled, fined and may be imprisoned. When the policeman had departed the writer looked worried. The hitchhiker consoled him. The writer then asked him what his profession was. He was in a very queer trade and that his job was hundred times more difficult than playing piano, being a conjurer or a card player.
Suddenly the passenger took out a black leather belt and asked the writer if he had ever seen it. It was the writer’s belt. Then he produced many things that belonged to the writer. The writer asked him if he was a pick pocket but the hitchhiker said no he was a fingersmith.The writer enquired how many times he had been caught? The man said pick pockets get caught not fingersmiths.Then the driver asked him if he was afraid as the police has his record and will check on him. At this the passenger cleverly smiled and held out the two books he had taken from the policeman’s pocket. The writer was very happy and called him a fantastic fellow.