TAG; OR, THE CHIEN BOULE DOG
“Spik Angleesh, me,” answered Bateese proudly, “an’ w’en garcon ’e say I not spik Angleesh I ponch heese eye.”
“By George, he’s a jolly little cuss,” said Pat, “if he only understood my French better.”
“You go to mak’ too moche on de Parisian,” quoted Patty, and they laughed. They continued to laugh at short intervals like three gay irresponsible children until the other occupant of the car looked amused out of sheer sympathy.
It was a regular love feast until they arrived at a refreshment station, when it became a banquet of a more substantial order. Bateese was hungry. The trio alighted, and being told the train would remain forty-five minutes owing to an obstruction on the line, and having seen Bateese fed to repletion at the lunch counter, they started down the platform.
