'Wot's that you say, Jock?' said a Cockney voice to his left.
'I was obsairvin',' said the other, 'that Number Twenty-sax is occupied this mornin'.'
'Ow yus, so it is. I was 'oping as 'ow me pal the Duke of Mudturtle would buy the plice next to mine. But he don't look a bad cove, wot you can see under 'is farncy 'ead-dress.'
'I dinna think he can be o' the airmy. His skin's as pale as a lassie in love.'
'In the army, Jock? Don't hinsult 'im. 'E's one of the 'eroes of the 'ome front—hindispensibles, they calls 'em.'
'Weel, weel, noo,' expostulated the Scot, 'dinna tak' ower muckle for granted. We canna a' gang tae the war, or wha wud bide at hame an' mak the whusky?'
'By Gar!' said a third patient opposite, sitting up suddenly and speaking in the disjointed but strangely musical dialect of the French-Canadian, 'she is a wise feller, dis Scoachie.'
'Bonn swoir, Frenchy,' said the Cockney graciously. ''Ow alley you mantenongs?'
'Verra good, Tommee. How is de godam bow bells?'
'Well, the last toime I sees me old side-kick the Lord Mayor, 'e says as 'ow they was took by a Canadian for a soovenir.'