'Cos I would dance, and sing too-ral-li-ety, arter he'd hordered a halt.
Awful gonophs, them guides, and no herror; they don't know their place not a mite,
And I'm dashed if this cad didn't laugh (with the rest), 'cos I looked sich a sight.
At Ostend.—Biffles (to Tiffles). In this bloomin' country everyone's a prince or a marquis or a baron or a nob of some sort, so I've just shoved you down in the Visitors' Book as Lord Harthur MacOssian, and me as the Dook of FitzDazzlem!
Tiffles. Well, now, that is a lark! What'd our missuses say?
[And what did their "Missuses" say when B. and T., held in pawn by the hotel proprietor (charging aristocratic prices), had to write home to Peckham Rye for considerable advances from the family treasuries?
