“Yes, indeed. He’s mountain-mad—mad as a Swiss March hare, if not madder—By the way, Susan, wot d’ee think o’ the French?”
Gillie propounded this question with the air of a philosopher.
“D’you mean French people?”
“No; I means the French lingo, as my friend Cappen Wopper calls it.”
“Well, I can’t say that I have thought much about it yet. Missis keeps me so busy that I haven’t time.”
“Ah!” said Gillie, “you’re wastin’ of precious opportoonities, Susan. I’ve bin a-studdyin’ of that lingo myself, now, for three weeks—off and on.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Susan, with an amused glance, “and what do you think of it?”
“Think of it! I think it’s the most outrageous stuff as ever was. The man who first inwented it must ’ave ’ad p’ralersis o’ the brain, besides a bad cold in ’is ’ead, for most o’ the enns an’ gees come tumblin’ through the nose, but only git half out after all, as if the speaker was afraid to let ’em go, lest he shouldn’t git hold of ’em again. There’s that there mountain, now. They can’t call it Mont Blang, with a good strong out-an’-out bang, like a Briton would do, but they catches hold o’ the gee when it’s got about as far as the bridge o’ the nose, half throttles it and shoves it right back, so that you can scarce hear it at all. An’ the best joke is, there ain’t no gee in the word at all!”
“No?” said Susan, in surprise.
“No,” repeated Gillie. “I’ve bin studdyin’ the spellin’ o’ the words in shop-winders an’ posters, an’, would you b’lieve it, they end the word Blang with a c.”