George had blushed (though the fact that he was already a deep red disguised the phenomenon).
“I’m afraid—I—I must have left it at home,” he stammered weakly, diving into his inside pocket and fishing amongst letters and papers.
Yet both Catherine and the policeman knew in that moment that he had not got a licence at all. Something in his voice told them.
And what is more, George knew that both the policeman and Catherine were aware that he had not got a licence at all. Something in their eyes told him.
And then George had wilted under the vivid abuse of Mr. H. Bullock. Spectators called out monotonously: “You were on the wrong side of ’im.” “You was goin’ too fast.” “You didn’t orter ’ave come nippin’ in like thet.” “On the kerb ’e was, a minute before—don’t know ’ow to drive, ’e don’t.” “Didn’t orter be trusted, them soit of cheps.” “Swervin’ abart like anythink: shouldn’ be surprised if he’s drunk.”
And a fierce clergyman in a three-inch collar floored George with the remark: “You ought to be in jail, my man. You are a pest to society.”
And then George had to push the battered machine into a garage (which was fortunately at hand), and pay exorbitantly for leaving it there. The garage proprietor was subtly sarcastic to George.
Then George came back to parley with the policemen. The crowd became hostile. George rather unwisely began to divest himself of his motoring garments. Facetiousness prevailed. Catherine was the subject of much speculation.
“I wouldn’t trust myself to ’im no more,” remarked a bystander. And another wanted to know if her mother knew she was out. (It was in the days of that popular song.)
“’E’s a-tryin’ to murder you, that’s wot ’e is,” said a sour-faced spectator. “’E’s found another gal, an’ wants ter git rid of you.”