One could have heard the last two words in the next compartment.
Terence looked up; and I saw by the twinkle in his eye what he was going to do.
“Hein?” he interrogated with a nasal whoop like a subdued trumpet. He had learnt this at school from his French teacher and was a profiscient at rendering it accurately. It gave an unconventional flavour to his manner—which was just what he wished.
“Hein?” he trumpeted again, with an air of amiable curiosity.
“I hawskt—do you—hem!—speak—Hinglish?”
“Ze Engels Langwitch? Yes: I shpeak him—von leetle bit. You alzóo?”
“Hi ’m ’n Englishman,” said the truculent one proudly, a trifle taken aback.
HE MEANS THE EAST END.
“Zoo?” replied Terence. “Ach zoo. Ja. Jawohl. Zoo gaat ’t. Beauti-ful—lang-witch! Beauti—ful!” he enunciated with painful distinctness and many twitches of his face.
All this fell in with the tourists’ preconceived ideas of foreign utterance. They exchanged glances.