“There appears,” said Sally, turning to her companion, “to be a hitch. Would you mind asking what's the matter? I don't know any French myself except 'oo la la!'”
The young man, thus appealed to, nerved himself to the task. He eyed the melancholy Jules doubtfully, and coughed in a strangled sort of way.
“Oh, esker... esker vous...”
“Don't weaken,” said Sally. “I think you've got him going.”
“Esker vous... Pourquoi vous ne... I mean ne vous... that is to say, quel est le raison...”
He broke off here, because at this point Jules began to explain. He explained very rapidly and at considerable length. The fact that neither of his hearers understood a word of what he was saying appeared not to have impressed itself upon him. Or, if he gave a thought to it, he dismissed the objection as trifling. He wanted to explain, and he explained. Words rushed from him like water from a geyser. Sounds which you felt you would have been able to put a meaning to if he had detached them from the main body and repeated them slowly, went swirling down the stream and were lost for ever.
“Stop him!” said Sally firmly.
The red-haired young man looked as a native of Johnstown might have looked on being requested to stop that city's celebrated flood.
“Stop him?”
“Yes. Blow a whistle or something.”