THE LANGUAGE DIFFICULTY.
"The jolly part about an island where there are no towns and no railways," said Willoughby, "is that you have thrills of excitement as to where you will sleep next night or eat your next meal. Now when we land at Lochrie Bay to-morrow it will be nearly lunch-time; but shall we get lunch?"
"I can answer that," replied MacFadden, whose grandfather was a Scotsman, and who was once in Edinburgh for a week; "the map shows it is only five miles to Waterfoot, and there's sure to be an hotel there. Those little Scots inns are all right."
"Yes," chimed in Sylvia, "and very likely there'll be nothing to eat when we get there. I am thinking of you three men, of course," she added hastily; "we girls don't want much."
"As for me," said Willoughby, looking at Sylvia, whom he has adored dumbly for years, "very little satisfies me. I'm like the fellow who said, 'a crust of bread, a bottle of wine and you.' You know the chap, MacFadden."
"Isn't it wonderful how he remembers his Omar?" remarked Mac enthusiastically.
"I don't know much poetry," said Willoughby, whose tastes are sporting rather than literary, "but I always liked that bit."
"But lunch," I interposed, "is the pressing question. There's sure to be an hotel at Waterfoot, as you say. Send a telegram there, asking for lunch for six. If there's no hotel, no reply and no lunch. If there is we get our reply and our lunch. Willoughby can wire, because he learned all about telegraphs in the army."
Within two hours came the reply. I opened it.
"Will supply luncheon for six, 1.15 to-day."
"Can you remember what your wire said, Willoughby?" I asked mildly.
"Rather. 'Can you provide luncheon for six at 1.15.—Willoughby.'"
"Exactly. Can't you see, you silly ass, how you've muffed it? Read this." Willoughby read, while Sylvia and Molly looked over and giggled.
"Hang it all! I suppose I ought to have said to-morrow," he sighed. "Here, Thompson, you and Hilda, as the married couple of the party, ought to deal with these beastly emergencies."
"Not I," I replied. "You've got us in the muddle, now get us out. Wire and say it's for to-morrow."
"And then," said my practical wife, "we shall get to-day's hot lunch cold to-morrow, and a rapacious Scotch-woman will charge us for it twice over."
"I wish you would say 'Scots,' not 'Scotch,'" complained MacFadden.
"Sorry, Kiltie," rejoined Hilda; "and perhaps one of you two will deal with the Scots woman."
"Leave her to me and none of you interfere," answered MacFadden. "Willoughby is no good at a job that needs tact. He's not half as lovable as I am either. Is he, Molly? We'll send the wire at once. Come on."
Next day the steamer dropped us into the ferry-boat off Lochrie Bay, and our bicycles, more frightened than hurt, but much shaken, were hurled in after us. After five miles on a primitive road we arrived at the hotel very late.
MacFadden, assuring us that if we only kept quiet he would see us through in spite of any Scots innkeeper, led the way.
The landlady, a dour woman, appeared.
"Good morning, Madam," began Mac politely.
"Will you be Mr. Willoughby?" she replied.
"No," said Mac truthfully, assuming a puzzled expression.
"Weel, then," resumed the lady, addressing Sylvia, who happened to be close behind, "will you be Mrs. Willoughby?"
Molly sniggered; Sylvia reddened and answered hastily, "No, I won't!" at which Willoughby sighed audibly.
"What I wanted to ask you was whether perhaps you could be so kind as to give us a bit of bread and cheese or something," said Mac ingratiatingly. "Of course one doesn't expect a proper lunch in these places without ordering it beforehand."
"And those that order beforehand dinna come," she replied with some asperity. "A pairty of six ordered for yesterday then they telegraphs to say they mean to-day, and now they're no here and the time lang gone by. I thocht ye were the pairty at first."
"What a shame!" murmured MacFadden sympathetically.
"Ay, if they had turned up they should hae had their lunch, and paid for it too," said the good lady grimly. "Twa days they should hae paid for. But if ye like ye can eat their lunch for them; it's cauld but guid."
So we ate heartily, paid reasonably and went away on good terms with ourselves and the lady.
Walking up the steep hill from the hotel I was just behind Willoughby and Sylvia. He was pushing the two bicycles and explaining something elaborately.
"Awfully sorry about that silly woman, Sylvia," he said, "but it's only their rotten way of talking English. You see, when she says, 'Will you be Mrs. Willoughby?' she really means, 'Are you?' It's not the same as when an Englishman says it. If I said, 'Will you be Mrs. Willoughby?' that would be different; it would mean—"
"Yes," interrupted Sylvia rather breathlessly, "that, Tommy dear, would be plain English, to which I could give a plain answer. I should say—"
We had reached the brow of the hill. I mounted my bicycle and hurried on.
Mistress. "You seem to have been in a good many situations. How many mistresses have you had, all told?"
Maid. "Fifteen, all told—and all told what I thought of 'em."
"1,000 EGGS IN ONE WHISKER."
Daily Paper.
A much worse case than that of Lear's old man with a beard, who said it was just as he feared.
"For all we know, Helen of Troy's best friends might have said, 'Helen has style and knows how to make the most of her good points; but, honest, now, do you think she should have got the apple?'"
Evening Paper.
Certainly not. That's why Paris gave it to Aphrodite.
First Ancient (with morbid fear of growing deaf, breaking long silence). "There—it's come at last! You've been talking all this time and I ain't heard a single word."
Second Ancient. "Bain't bin talkin'—bin chewin'."