The Surly P. I don't know whether you are aware of it, Ma'am, but that umbrella of yours is sending a constant trickle down the back of my neck, which is most unpleasant!
The Female P. I'm sorry to hear it, Sir, but it's no worse for you than it is for me. I've got somebody else's umbrella dripping down my back, and I don't complain.
The Surly P. I do, Ma'am, for, being in front, I haven't even the poor consolation of feeling that my umbrella is a nuisance to anybody.
A Sardonic P. (in the rear, politely). On the contrary, Sir, I find it a most pleasing object to contemplate. Far more picturesque, I don't doubt, than any scenery it may happen to conceal.
A Chatty P. (to the driver; not because he cares, but simply for the sake of conversation). What fish do you catch in that river there?
The Driver (with an effort). There'll be troots, an, maybe, a pairrch or two.
The Chatty P. Perch? Ah, that's rather like a goldfish in shape, eh?
Driver (cautiously). Aye, it would be that.
Chatty P. Only considerably bigger, of course.
Driver (evasively). Pairrch is no a verra beg fesh.