“They’re a dyngerous lot of people about this park. My word! it doesn’t do to ply with them!” he observed, in that rycy Austrylian English, which (as it has received the imprimatur of Mr. Froude) we should all make haste to imitate.
“Why, I’m one of that lot myself,” returned Carthew.
Hemstead laughed, and remarked that he knew a gentleman when he saw one.
“For all that, I am simply one of the unemployed,” said Carthew, seating himself beside his new acquaintance, as he had sat (since this experience began) beside so many dozen others.
“I’m out of a plyce myself,” said Hemstead.
“You beat me all the way and back,” says Carthew. “My trouble is that I have never been in one.”
“I suppose you’ve no tryde?” asked Hemstead.
“I know how to spend money,” replied Carthew, “and I really do know something of horses and something of the sea. But the unions head me off; if it weren’t for them, I might have had a dozen berths.”
“My word!” cried the sympathetic listener. “Ever try the mounted police?” he inquired.
“I did, and was bowled out,” was the reply; “couldn’t pass the doctors.”