J. P.—(Joyously) “Voilà—comme c’est bon—c’est symbolique, un coup de l’imagination, n’est-ce-pas?”
T. A.—(Catching the word) “That’s it—you’ve struck it; it sets our imagina-see-on to work. Also it’s a special swanky tune for marching to; makes you forget your poor feet. Like the tune, eh? Savvy? Tipperary—you ’preciate the air—le music, tray bong, nace-pah?”
J. P. (Beaming) “La musique—la mélodie—ah, oui, mais c’est—how do you say him?” (triumphantly): “Luv-lee!”
T. A.—(Enthusiastically) “Oh, good! Bong garsong! You cottoned on beautifully that time, anyhow.”
J. P.—“Comment?”
T. A.-“Come on? Where? Oh, I see—one of your words. Well?”
J. P.—“But, tell me, eet is how long—how far—to Teeperary?”
T. A.—(Desperately) “Now look here, old dear; I’ve had enough of this. You take it from me there’s some things you bally well can’t get the hang of, and this is one of ’em. Never mind; donny-moi one of those funny little black fags of yours and we’ll toddle to a caffy and drink to William the Conqueror—I don’t think. Come on!”
J. P.—“Comment?”