The Rolls-Royce owner takes the cigar from his mouth and gazes in astonishment at the accusing apparition before him.
"A hour ago," pursues the newcomer relentlessly, "you was driving along the front here in the whackin' great car. It ain't no good denyin' it, 'cos I took the number."
"What d'ye mean—denying it?" exclaims Rolls-Royce. "Who's denying anythink?"
"It ain't no good tryin' to deny it," retorts the other. "An' it ain't no good denyin' wot you did neether, 'cos I've got my missus 'ere to prove it."
"What I did?" echoes the astonished man. "What did I do?"
"Ran over my child's b'loon," states the accuser, fixing him with a pitiless eye. For the moment the object of this serious charge is too taken aback to be capable of speech.
"'Ran over my child's b'loon,'" repeats the other inexorably. "Leastways your chauffer did. An' when we 'ollered out to yer to stop you just rushed on like a runaway railway-train."
Rolls-Royce, conscious of the curious gaze of the entire company, pulls himself together and regards his accuser unfavourably.
"First I've 'eard of it," he growls. "Where was the balloon anyway? In the road, I s'pose?"
"Yes, it was in the road," retorts the other defiantly, "where it's got every right to be. Road's there for the convenience of b'loon-fliers just as much as for motor-cars. More."