"Wotcher do that for? Chuckin' my spoons abart! Drunk, that's wot you are!"
"Ain't drunk!" said the soldier.
"Wotcher chuck my spoon at 'im for, then? 'E ain't done you no 'arm."
"Yus 'e 'as," was the soldier's surprising retort.
"No 'e ain't."
"Yus 'e 'as."
"No 'e 'ain't. 'E ain't done you no 'arm."
To which the derelict chimed in (he had retrieved the spoon and now advanced timidly with it under the awning): "I ain't done you no 'arm"—a husky, whimpering chorus to his fat patron.
The soldier fixed the derelict with a fierce glare. "Yus you 'ave," he reiterated.