"Yes," I replied humbly, "I am."
"Have you the permit which allows you to possess this?" He waved towards the stagnant 'bus.
"I have."
"Have you the licence which allows you to take it upon the high road?"
With frozen fingers I held it out to him. He moved to the back of the car, unscrewed the entrance to the petrol tank and applied his nose to the aperture. After three official sniffs he turned upon me aggressively.
"There is an undeniable odour of petroleum. How do you account for that?"
"Sir," I replied, "last week my little son had his knockabout suit dry-cleaned in Perthshire by the petrol-substitute process. This morning he climbed upon the back of the car to see whether his Silver Campine had laid an egg in the hood."
He glared at me.
"Ah! Have you the necessary extension which allows you to use a motorcar as a habitation for hens?"
I gave it to him.