Tourist. Under you, under you, lady.
Little Lady. I am so tired. What a wretched camera you have. I thought it felt uncomfortable and I was wondering why. Now I know; I am sitting on your camera.
Tourist [agonized]. Lady!
Little Lady. I thought it was a stone. I saw something lying there and I thought: A queer-looking stone; I wonder why it's so black. So that's what it was; it was your camera. I see.
Tourist [agonized]. Lady, for heaven's sake!
Little Lady. Why is it so large, tell me. Cameras are small, but this one is so large. I swear I never had the faintest suspicion it was a camera. Can you take my picture? I would so much like to have my picture taken with the mountains here for a background, in this wonderful setting.
Tourist. How can I take your picture if you are sitting on my camera?
Little Lady [jumping up, frightened]. Is it possible? You don't say so. Why didn't you tell me so? Does it take pictures?
Voices. Waiter, one beer!—What did you bring wine for?—I gave you my order long ago.—What will you have, sir?—One minute.—In a second. Waiter!—Waiter—Toothpicks!—
[A fat tourist enters in haste, panting, surrounded by a numerous family.]