That was a clincher. Terence had amply avenged their contempt of the scenery they were passing through.
“Let the bloomin’ ass aleoun”, cried Truculence junior. “’E deoun’t kneouw wot ’e’s torkin’ abeout.”
But the shot had gone home. The papers had been full of “Wake up, John Bull!” of late, and he felt uncomfortable. Yet though we relapsed into silence, it wasn’t for long. For soon the senior member of the trio got very exasperated with a local railway-guide that he had been consulting. “Bit of a muddle that!” he cried contemptuously, flinging the booklet on the seat. “Cawn’t mike ’ed or tile of it!”
He turned to my cousin: “Can you tell me ’ow far it is to Gooday—or Goodee?”
Terence replied briskly in appalling English: “Goodee—I know-not. Zat iss nozzing. Good-day, zat is Goejen-dag!”
“Look ’ere,” said the tourist; “’Ere you aw!” pointing to the name of the place on his Cook’s ticket.
GOUDA HISTORICAL.
“Oh,” said Terence, getting so foreign as to be scarcely intelligible. “Zat-iss—Gouda. Beaut-ti-ful city!” And he rolled his eyes in apparent awe at the magnificence of that unpretentious market-town. “Ex-qui-seet!”
“Ow far is it?” queried his interlocutor. “Ow long, in the trine—to Gouda?”
“Alzoo,” returned my cousin, purposely misunderstanding him. “Yes; ferry long. Long times. Ferry old ceety. Much years. Tree—four—century! Historique!”