“French?” he said. “Well, now I'm surprised to 'ear it, sir. If you'll excuse me saying so, you don't look like no Frenchman.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“I always thought they was little chaps, no bigger than a monkey. Why, you're quite as tall as most Englishmen.”
Considering that my friend could not possibly have measured more than five feet, two inches, and that I am five feet, nine inches, in my socks, I was highly diverted by this.
“Have you seen many Frenchmen?” I asked him. “I knew one once,” he replied, after a minute or two's thought, and a brief interruption to invite some ladies on the pavement to enter his 'bus. “'E was a waiter at the Bull's 'Ead, 'Ighbury. I drove a 'bus that way then, and there was a young lady served in the bar 'im and me was both sweet on. Nasty, greasy little man 'e was—meaning no reflection on you, sir. They couldn't make out where the fresh butter went, and when 'e left—which 'e 'ad to for kissing the missis when she wasn't 'erself, 'aving 'ad a drop more than 'er usual—do you know what they found, sir?”
I confessed my inability to guess this secret. “Why, 'e'd put it all on 'is beastly 'air, two pounds a week, sir, of the very best fresh butter in 'Ighbury. Perhaps, sir, I've been prejudiced against Frenchmen in consequence.”
I admitted that he had every excuse, and asked him whether my buttered compatriot had won the maiden's affections in addition to his other offences.
“No, sir,” said he, “I'm 'appy to say she 'ad more sense. More sense than to take either of us,” he added, with a deep sigh, and then, as if to quench melancholy reflections, hailed another driver who was passing us in the most hilarious fashion.
“'Old your 'at on, ole man!” he shouted. “Them opera-'ats is getting scarce, you know!”