Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 159, September 15, 1920 by Various
page 32 of 62 (51%)
page 32 of 62 (51%)
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"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 towards the beach. The crowd on the pavement, regretfully convinced that the entertainment is at an end, disperses slowly. Rolls-Royce, seemingly unconscious of the interest of Charteris and our host, who are looking at him covertly as at some zoological specimen, relights his cigar and sits glowering across the road, and silence falls upon the scene--a silence broken at last by the lady in the diamonds, who has resumed her languid pose in the wicker-chair. "'Orrible people!" she observes, addressing the occupants of the porch generally. "Nice state o' things when you can't even be safe from 'em in yer own 'otel. You don't seem to be able to get away from these low-class people hanywhere--you don't reely!" * * * * * |
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