Jonathan Tarbox greets an old friend.
"I suppose you have not studied the French language," said Frank, smiling.
"No, and I don't want to. I'd be ashamed o' myself to talk like them. Why in thunder don't they talk English?" asked Jonathan, with an expression of disgust.
"I suppose they wonder that Americans don't speak French."
"Why, they do say that young ones call their mothers a mare," continued Mr. Tarbox. "That's what I call sassy. Ef I'd called my mother a mare when I was a youngster, she'd have keeled me over quicker'n a wink. Then a gal is called a filly. That's most as bad. And what do you think I saw on the programme at the restorant where I go to get dinner?"
"What was it?" asked Frank, amused.
"It was poison, only it wasn't spelled right. The ignorant critters spelled it with a double s. I say they'd ought to be indicted for keepin' p'ison among their vittles."
"You have made a little mistake, Mr. Tarbox. The word you refer to—poisson—is the French word for fish."