THE BATTALION.
9
them all in a bewildered manner.]
Mr. Pritchard—Say, Sambo!
Waiter—Name ain’t Sambo, name Pluto.
Mr. Pritchard—Well then, Pluto, when can we have
breakfast? Want it at once.
Waiter-Enty you tell me lass, brekfuss sebn sharp?
’E jess six now.
Mrs. Courtenay (taking out her watch)—Half after
six, railroad time. But what do you mean by saying we
ordered breakfast for seven o’clock? We have only just
arrived.
Waiter—De boss say, lass night, Brekfuss fur Fibe.
(counts the party before him, but fails to count Grace,
who happens to be behind Mrs. Courtenay, a little out of
1 is view.) One, too, tree, fo’ fibe!
Mr. Pritchard (aside to Mrs. Courtenay)—For heav
ens sake, let it be as he says. We are the party. I
don’t care whose breakfast it is, we must have it.
Mr. Preston (to himself)—Bob’s hunger is too much
for his conscience. Well, we are all too sharpset to in
dulge in scruples.
Miss Euphemia—Yes, if it is ready, let us eat by all
means. But if it isn’t, do let us have a refreshing bath
first.
Mr. Preston—Can you ladies get at your bathing
dresses readily? Bob and I have ours at the top our port
manteaus, and could get into them in the twinkling of an
eye.
Mrs. Courtenay—Oh yes, we could be ready for the
sea in ten minutes.