Miss Trotter. Well, I guess it would be about as luxurious if it hadn't got a chunk of wood nailed down the middle—it's not going to have anyone confusing it with a bed of roses just yet. (To PODB.) Your friend mad about anything? He don't seem to open his head more'n he's obliged to. I presume he don't approve of your taking up with me and Father—he keeps away from us considerable, I notice.
Podb. (awkwardly). Oh—er—I wouldn't say that, but he's a queer kind of chap rather, takes prejudices into his head and all that. I wouldn't trouble about him if I were you—not worth it, y' know.
Miss T. Thanks—but it isn't going to shorten my existence any.
[CULCH. overhears all this, with feelings that may be imagined.
Belgian Driver (to his horses). Pullep! Allez vîte! Bom-bom-bom! Alright!
Conductor (to CULCHARD). 'E's very proud of 'is English, 'e is. 'Ere, JEWLS, ole feller, show the gen'lm'n 'ow yer can do a swear. (Belgian Driver utters a string of English imprecations with the utmost fluency and good-nature.) 'Ark at 'im now! Bust my frogs! (Admiringly, and not without a sense of the appropriateness of the phrase.) But he's a caution, Sir, ain't he? I taught him most o' what he knows!
A French Passenger (to Conductor). Dis done, mon ami, est-ce qu'on peut voir d'ici le champ de bataille?
Conductor (with proper pride). It ain't no use your torkin to me, Mossoo; I don't speak no French myself. (To CULCHARD.) See that field there, Sir?
Culchard (interested). On the right? Yes, what happened there?
