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It would only need to be shown that the gentle mind secured his seat with dignity and comfort at the bus's starting point and daily for years watched with amusement, and then with callousness and so with brutality the struggles of the unhappy fellow creatures who fought to assail it at its stopping places on the way to the City.
"And for what d'ye think I called out Putney thin?" "'Cause it's my name, or rayther the bus's name. This 'ere IS a Putney." "How can it be a Putney whin it isn't goin' to Putney, ye gomerhawk?" "Ain't you an Hirishwoman?" retorted the conductor. "Course yer are. But yer aren't always goin' to Ireland. We're goin' to Putney in time, only we're a-going to Liverpool Street fust. 'Igher up, Jim."
I don't know where it went to that day, certainly not to Barnes, but late in the evening it burst into another 'bus's burrow at Tooting, its sides heaving, its tyres worn to the quick, its windows streaming with perspiration, and a great bruise on its forehead where a chance bomb had struck it. I believe the poor thing had to be put out of its misery in the end.
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