s accuser hotly. "We'll soon see about
that. We're English people, we are--we don't allow people to go about
destroyin' our b'loons."

"No wonder they're so rich," cries the woman at the bottom of
the steps in satirical tones. "That's the way to get rich, that
is--destroyin' other people's prop'ty an' then refusin' to pay for it.
Anybody could get rich that way."

Reflections on the feasibility of this novel financial scheme are cut
short by the appearance at the top of the steps of the hotel porter,
who touches the originator of the disturbance on the shoulder.

"Come on, you're not allowed up 'ere, you know," he observes.

"Ho, ain't I?" retorts the man defiantly. "Is this Buckingham Pallis?"

"You can't come up 'ere unless you've got business in the 'otel,"
states the porter unmoved.

"So I 'ave got bisness 'ere," declares the other. "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.

"I'm an Englishman, I am," he concludes from the pavement. "No one
can't close my mouth with 'alf-crowns."

For a brief space he stands scowling up at the porch as though
challenging all and sundry to perform this feat, then, taking his wife
by the arm, moves off with her and the still insistent child tow