A small boy was playing with a basketball in the street, when suddenly it bounced through the railings and broke the kitchen window of one of the houses by the street. The lady of the house waited with anger in her eyes for the appearance of the ball’s owner. He arrived.
“Please, I’ve broken your window,” he said, “and father’s come to mend it.”
Sure enough the boy was followed by a man, who at once set to work, while the boy, taking his ball, ran off.
The window finished, the man said:
“That’ll be three pounds, mum.”
“Three pounds!” gasped the woman. “But your son broke it. The little fellow with the ball. You’re his father, aren’t you?”
The man shook his head.
“Never seen him before,” he said. “He came round to my place and said his mother wanted her window mended.
You’re his mother, aren’t you?”
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