They were Englishmen,—London shopkeepers in a small way, I guessed, from their talk. Two of them, father and son, seemed a bit hectoring and dictatorial; the third was an admiring satellite. For very shame’s sake Terence and I didn’t like to drop our Dialogue as if we were culprits; so we lowered our voices, and went through it to the bitter end.
Our new companions listened for a moment, and the truculent father said, “Neouw, there y’are, Tom! wot’s hall that tork abeout? You kneouw the lingo.”
Master Tom—he was about nineteen—posed, apparently, as a linguist. He knew the language all right, he said. “It was kind of debased German. He had picked it up from a boy at school. It was the sime to ’im as Hinglish.”
“Wottaw thiy siyin, Tom?” said the father.
“Oh,” muttered Tom, “abeout the kaind ’v dai it is, an’, hall thet rot. But no use listenin’ to them. They tork such a bad patois, an’ hungrimmentikil.”
The satellite looked impressed. “D’ye tork ’t ’s wull ’s French an’ Juh’man?” he asked.
“Hall the sime to me”, said Tom. “The sime ’z Hinglish.”
The satellite’s awe deepened. Presently, however, he spied the cattle in the fields as we sped along. He pointed them out to Tom. “Fine ceouws, miy wu’d!”
THE BACKSLIDER
“Humph! better in Bu’kshire!” replied the linguist.