“Will Monsieur look at ze goods?”
“No, no! Is the Chicago & Northwestern in this row?”
By this time the Frenchman was out of patience.
“Monsieur, talks—wat you call ’im—gibberish. I ’ave not ze time to waste. Eef it ees ze watch—”
“Sir,” replies Tibbitts, severely, “when you announce ‘English spoken,’ you should speak English, or at least understand it. Good morning, or, as you don’t understand the plainest English, bong-swoir.”
He had succeeded this time, and should have rested on his laurels. But Tibbittses, alas, always overdo what they undertake. He had extracted so much amusement from his first experiment that he tried it over again the next day. He entered a similar place and commenced the same thing.
“What I want to know, is the Chicago & Northwestern in the railroad war, and do you suppose the cutting of rates will continue till September, when I return, and—”
“Indeed I cannot tell you, sir. It is something I do not keep the run of. You had better apply at the American Exchange, or the Herald office.”
THE POLITE FRENCH.
This in the best and clearest American English. Poor Tibbitts had fallen upon a bright American who was turning his knowledge of French to account by serving as a salesman in Paris. He smiled a ghastly smile as he bowed himself out of the place. Bad marksmen who by chance hit the bull’s eye, should be very modest and refuse to shoot again. Even Napoleon, great as he was, fought one battle too many.