Very young subalterns with romantic notions may waste good beer-money on foreign phrase-books and get themselves enravelled in hopeless international tangles, but not old Atkins. The English soldier in Italy will speak what he has always spoken with complete success in Poperinghe, Amiens, Cairo, Salonika, Dar-es-Salaam, Bagdad and Jerusalem, to wit, English.
But to return to our train. At nightfall we left the fairy coast behind, its smiling signorinas, flags, flowers and fruit, and swarmed up a pile of perpendicular scenery from summer to winter. During a halt in the midst of moonlit snows our carriage door was opened and we beheld outside an Italian officer, who saluted and gave us an exhibition of his native tongue at rapid fire.
"He's referring to us," said the Babe. "Answer him, somebody; tell him we're on his side and all that."
"Viva l' Italia," William exclaimed promptly.
The Italian countered with a "Viva l'Inghilterra" and swept on with his monologue.
"Seems to want something," said Albert Edward. "Wonder if Cæsar is too technical for him."
"Read him something from The English Soldier in Italy," I suggested.
The Babe thumbed feverishly through the handbook. "'Let us get in; the guard has already cried'—No, that won't do. 'Give me a walk and return ticket, please'—That won't do either. 'Yes, I have a trunk and a carpet-bag'—Oh, this is absurd." He cast the book from him.
At that moment the engine hooted, the trucks gave a preliminary buck and started to jolt forward. The Italian sprang upon the running board and, clinging to the hand-rail, continued to declaim emotionally through the window. William became alarmed. "This chap has something on his mind. Perhaps he's trying to tell us that a bridge has blown up, or that the train is moving without a movement order, or the chauffeur is drunk. For Heaven's sake somebody do something—quick!"
Thereupon Babel broke loose, each of us in his panic blazing off in the foreign language which came easiest to his tongue.