"When did you first begin professionally?"
"Do you count a gunniff a perfessional in this 'ere country?"
"A gunniff? What's that?"
"Don't you know wot a gunniff is, Bobbs? W'y. Hi'm amazed. Hi'll 'ave to present chummy with a Century dictionary in sixteen volumes w'ich we'll be hable to do w'en we get out of 'ere, w'ich won't be long. Hi'm a-winkin.'"
All the time that he spoke Robert heard a low scraping noise, softer than the rasping he had noticed in the evenings. Apparently it was close to his ear.
"A gunniff is a juvenile institution peculiar to our bloomin' hold Hengland."
"Leave out some of your bloomings, won't you, especially about England."
"W'y not, chummy? Ain't it in the dic? Is it a wulgar word?"
Robert did not reply, but he thought how many words as sacred and beautiful as this have been profaned to foul uses or cheapened to the vapidity of a Frenchman's "Mon Dieu."
"Hi beg your bloomin' pardon, Bobbs. If it's wulgar, Hi drop it, and with your leave Hi'll resume my hinterrupted hautobiography."