“Yes, yes,” said the impatient traveller. “But—wen—d’we—arrive? get there—you kneouw—?”
“You vil arrivé,” pronounced Terence in the same baby-English, “haff—of—ze—klok.”
“Hawf ’n eour; that wot ’e’s drivin’ et,” grumbled the Linguist.
They kept on asking questions and criticising us to our faces, when they talked together. Our dress, our appearance, our complexions were all adjudged to be woefully foreign; and they got so patronising that I had to put in an odd word, in real English, to Terence, now and again, just to prevent them going too far. Imperceptibly conversation became general; and as I forced Terence out of his assumed ignorance of English, the surprise of the tourists deepened into dismay, for they noticed we were talking more and more quickly, and idiomatically as well.
FOREIGNERS DON’T GET THE HANG OF IT.
“Hi siy!” whispered the satellite, “they’re learnin’ Hinglish from hus! I’m blest hif thiy weount soon be nearly ’s good ’s we are!”
“Never you fear,” said young Conceit. “Furriners never git the ’ang of it.”
“Never,” corroborated Truculence.
But the open criticising of our appearance was at an end.
Our companions looked anything but conciliatory when a crowd of rustics poured into the carriage at one of the stations. It was some sort of market at Gouda; and the bommel was crammed now. Finally the guard scurried along, and half hoisted, half pushed a peasant woman with her three children into the compartment.