"That's a jaw breaker," came the response. "How do you spell it?"
"P-u-y-a-l-l-u-p," I said.
"Let me see—how did you say you pronounced it?"
Pouting out my lips like a veritable Siwash, and emphasizing every letter and syllable so as to bring out the Peuw for Puy, and the strong emphasis on the al, and cracking my lips together to cut off the lup, I finally drilled my friend so he could pronounce the word, yet fell short of the elegance of the scientific pronunciation.
Then when I crossed the Atlantic and across the old London bridge to the Borough, and there encountered the factors of the hop trade on that historic ground, the haunts of Dickens in his day; and when we were bid to be seated to partake of the viands of an elegant dinner; and when I saw the troubled look of my friend, whose lot it was to introduce me to the assembled hop merchants, and knew what was weighing on his mind, my sympathy went out to him but remained helpless to aid him.
"I say—I say—let me introduce to you my American friend—my American friend from—my American friend from—from—from—"
And when, with an imploring look he visibly appealed to me for help, and finally blurted out:
"I say, Meeker, I cawn't remember that blarsted name—what is it?"
And when the explosion of mirth came with:
"All the same, he's a jolly good fellow—a jolly good fellow."