"
"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."
"Look 'ere, that's enough of it," says the car-owner harshly. "If
the balloon got run over it's yer own fault for letting it go in the
road."
"That's a nice way to talk," suddenly comes in shrill tones from the
woman below, who has edged her way to the foot of the steps. "We don't
go buyin' balloons for you to run over in yer cars. We're respectable
people, we are, an' we work for our livin'."
"Drivin' about in a car like an express train, runnin' over other
people's b'loons," corroborates her husband bitterly.
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