He is calm and collected in an emergency. Thus, to a lady who has burst into flames, "Bi not êfrêd, Madam," he says, "thi fair hès còt jur gaun. Lé daun òp-òn thi flòr, ènd ju uil put aut thi fair uith jur hènds." His presence of mind saves him from using his own hands for the purpose. Resourcefulness is indeed as natural to him as to Sir CHRISTOPHER WREN in the famous poem. "Uilliam," he says to his man, "if ènebòde asch-s fòr mi, ju uil sê thèt ai scèl bi bèch in ê fòrt-nait."
He meets Miss Butterfield.
"Mis Bòttarfild," he says, "uil ju ghiv mi ê glàs òv uòtar, if ju plîs?" And that is the end of the lady. Or I think so. But there is just a possibility that it is she (no longer Miss Butterfield, but now a Signora) whom he rebukes in a coffee-house: "Mai diar, du nòt spích òv pòllitichs in ê Còffi-Haus, fòr nò travvellar, if priùdènt, èvvar tòchs èbaut pòllitichs in pòblich." And again it may be for Miss Butterfield that he orders a charming present (first saying it is for a lady): "Ghiv mi thèt ripittar sèt uith rubès, thèt straich-s thi aurs ènd thi hâf-aurs."
Finally he embarks for Australia and quickly becomes as human as the rest of us. "Thi uind," he murmurs uneasily, "is raisin. Thi si is vère ròf. Thi mô-sciòn òv thi Stim-bôt mêch-s mi an-uèl. Ai fîl vère sich. Mai hèd is dizze. Ai hèv gòt ê hèd-êch." But he assures a fellow-passenger that there is no cause for fear, even if a storm should come on. "Du nòt bi àlarmd," he says; "thèar is nô dêngg-ar. Thi Chèp-tèn òv this Stima-r is è vère clèvar mèn."
His last words, addressed apparently to the rest of the passengers as they reach Adelaide, are these: "Lèt òs mêch hêst ènd gô tu thi Còstòm-Haus tu hèv aur lògh-êggs èch-samint. In Òstrêlia, thi Còstòm-Haus Òffisars ar nòt hòtte, bàt vère pôlait."
"I AIN'T ENOUGH PAPER TO WROP HIM UP, MISTER; BUT NO ONE'LL NOTICE A NOOD WURZEL IN WAR-TIME."