"ASTONISHING THE NATIVES"
First Alpine Tourist. "I say, Will, are you asleep?"
Second Tourist. "Asleep? No, I should think not! Hang it, how they bite!"
First Tourist. "Try my dodge. Light your pipe, and blow a cloud under the clothes! They let go directly. There's a lot perched on the foot-bar of my bed now—coughing like mad!"
Tommy (who has just begun learning French, on his first visit to Boulogne). "I say, daddy, did you call that man 'garçon'?"
Daddy (with pride). "Yes, my boy."
Tommy (after reflection). "I say, daddy, what a big garçon he'll be when he's out of jackets and turn-downs, and gets into tails and stick-ups!"
(You may speak to anyone in France, even to a bold gendarme—if you are only decently polite)
"I implore your pardon for having deranged you, mister the gendarme, but might I dare to ask you to have the goodness to do me the honour to indicate to me the way for to render myself to the Street of the Cross of the Little-Fields?"
IN RE THE RIGI
From a recent letter in the Times it would seem that tourists visiting the hotels on the Rigi have to secure entertainment at the point (or rather the knuckle) of the fist. If the fashion is permitted to become chronic (by the patient endurance of the British public), the diary kept by the visitor to the Rigi is likely to appear in the following form:—
Tuesday, 4 A.M.—Just seen the sun rise. Rather cloudy in the valley, but on the whole magnificent. Will stay until to-morrow, as I am sure the air is excellent.
5 A.M.—Going back to the hotel. The night porter is shouting at me.
8 A.M.—Just finished a three hours' fight with the night porter. He scored "first blood" to my "first knock-down blow." I was able to polish him off in forty-seven rounds, and consequently have an excellent appetite for breakfast.
9 A.M.—After some desperate struggling with half-a-dozen waiters, have secured a cup of coffee and a small plate of cold meat.
12 A.M.—Have been asleep on a bench outside the hotel for the last two hours and a half, recovering from my recent exertions.
1 P.M.—Have fraternised with five English tourists armed with alpenstocks. One of our party has opened negotiations with the hotel-keeper as to the possibility of obtaining some lunch.
2 P.M.—Our ambassador has returned with his coat torn into tatters, and one of his eyes severely bruised.
3 P.M.—By a coup de main we have seized the salle-à-manger, and now are feasting merrily on bread and honey.
4 P.M.—Just driven from our vantage-ground by eight boots, ten waiters, the landlord and auxiliaries from the kitchen.
6 P.M.—Have spent the last two hours in consultation.
7 P.M.—A spy from our party (assuming the character of an English duke) is just leaving us for the front.
8 P.M.—Our spy has just returned, and reports that when he asked for a room the enemy attacked him with brooms and candlesticks.
9 P.M.—Have just matured our plan of attack.
10 P.M.—Glorious news! A triumphant victory! Our party, in single file, made a descent upon the table-d'hôte, seized a large number of hors d'œuvres, and, after an hour's desperate fighting, secured a large room on the top floor, where we are now safely barricaded for the night! Hurrah!
At Dieppe.—Edwin. Awfully jolly here! Awfully jolly band! Awfully jolly waltz! Awfully jolly, isn't it?
Angelina. Quite too awfully nice!
Edwin. Waltz over. Awfully nice moon! Awfully jolly to be a poet, I should think. Say heaps of civil things about the moon, don't you know! Rather jolly, eh? Tennyson, and that sort of thing, don't you know?
Angelina. Yes, isn't he a perfect love?
Edwin. Yes—great fun. Next dance—square. Awfully stupid things—squares, eh? You're not engaged?
Angelina (archly). Not yet!
Edwin. Then let's sit it out.
