"Bisness c'nected
with my son's b'loon."
"An' we don't leave 'ere till it's settled, neither," cries the lady
on the pavement. "'Alf-a-crown that balloon cost, an' we don't budge
from 'ere till we get it."
This is altogether too much for the owner of the Rolls-Royce.
"'Alf-a-crown?" he explodes and turns indignantly to the company.
"'Alf-a-crown for a child's balloon, and _then_ they go on strike."
Derisive cheers and counter-cheers go up from the crowd below as the
incensed balloon-owner bursts forth into an impassioned defence of his
inalienable right as a free-born Briton to strike or to buy half-crown
balloons as the spirit moves him. Simultaneously the lady in the
diamonds rises and, producing a coin from her gold bag, holds it with
a superb gesture at arm's length beneath his nose. For a moment or two
he pays no attention to her, then takes the coin impatiently with the
air of one brushing aside an irritating interruption and continues his
harangue.
"Come on," puts in the porter; "you've got yer 'alf-crown. S'pose you
move on."
"Got me 'alf-crown, 'ave I'?" he retorts. "Wot about my rights as a
man? Does 'alf-a-crown buy them?"
No one venturing to solve this social problem he turns slowly and,
glaring over his shoulder at Rolls-Royce, descends the steps.
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