The Driver (to a Passenger with a Badge, immediately behind him). 'Ow is it you're orf yer keb to-day, Bob? Taking a day orf, or what?
The Passenger with a Badge. Not much. Goin' up to Bow Street to gimmy evidence in a collision case—that's all.
Driver (dubiously). Bow Street! Ain't that rorther shovin' yer 'ed in the lion's mouth, eh?
The P. with a B. (with virtuous serenity). Not it! What ha' they got agen me all the time I bin licensed? Only three drunks and a loiter!
The Chatty P. (returning to the charge). Orful state the roads are in with all this mud! I s'pose that's the London County Council, eh?
The Contrad. P. London Kayounty Kayouncil! No, it ain't—nothink o' the sort! I'll tell yer 'oo it is, if yer want to know; it's Gladstone!
The Chatty P. (mildly surprised, but glad to have discovered common ground). I see you're a Conservative—like myself.
The Contrad. P. That's jest where you're wrong! I ain't no Conservative, nor yet I don't want none o' Gladstone neither. I'm a Radikil, I am. John Burns and Ben Tillett—that's my lot!
The Chatty P. (reluctantly relinquishing politics). Ah, well, every man's got a right to form his own opinions, ain't he?
The Contrad. P. No, he ain't—not if he goes and forms wrong 'uns! (A pause.) 'Ave yer got the time about yer?