T. A.—“Me? Never was there in the whole course of my natural, _cher ami, see voo play, mong cher frère_. What price my _parley-vooing_, eh?” J. P.—“_Charmant—charmant! Vous parlerez bientôt_—” T. A.—“Cut it, old dear; I like you—you’re hot stuff; but your queer langwidge is a bit too thick. Have a fag? No offense.” J. P.—“_Merci bien, m’sieu. Mais dites-moi—tiens!_ Tell me, eef you please, where is zis Teeperary, and why you sing always of it such a ’long, long way?’ Ees it that you all come from there?” T. A.-“Well, I never met anybody yet who’d been there, but I’ll tell you one thing—promise you won’t let on?” J. P.—“‘Let on?’ Pardon—I do not—” T. A.—“You won’t tell anyone?” J. P.—“_Ah, non, non—pas un mot!_” T. A.—(Whispers hoarsely) “It’s in Ireland.” J. P. (Ecstatically) “Ah—Teeperary ees in Ireland! Eet is the Hymne National of _les Irlandais sans doute_; the—what do you say—the National Anthem of that country!” T. A.—(Rather taken aback) “Well, not exactly a _hymn_, my son. You’re a long way off it yet.” J. P.—“‘A long, long way’ off eet, _hein_? But why so very far to this place you sing of? And why do you celebrate it so loudly on your marching?” T. A.—(Puzzled) “Blowed if I know. It’s a long way because—you see, you’d have to cross the Channel; then first on the left and straight on till you board the Irish packet; then—ask a policeman. See?” J. P.—(Sadly) “_Ah, oui, oui. Je ne comprends pas—mille regrets._” T. A.—“You no comprenny, eh? Same here—left my geography home on the piano, else I’d put it clearer.” (An idea comes to him.) “You see, it’s like this: we take Tipperary as kind of representative—oh, _very_ hot. Now I’m oratin’. Twig?” J. P.—“_Pardon?_” T. A.—(Very earnestly, explaining to himself as well as his friend) “Means lots of things, Tipperary—home, the girl, a square feed, plenty of ’baccy, and the old pals, you know; all signified by the word ‘Tipperary.’ Understand? We pack it up tight for convenience in transport, and when we sing it, it all comes out—the jolly things we’ve left behind. Got it?” J. P.—(Smiling happily) “_Ah, bien entendu_—you ‘pack it’—ze Irish packet of which you have spoke, is it not?” T. A.—(Groaning softly) “Oh, Lord! Cheese it, Frenchie—you make me perspire. What I mean is, when we _sing_ ‘Tipperary’ it _reminds_ us of all these things. And we like it. Makes us feel nice all over.” J. P.—(Joyously) “_Voilà—comme c’est bon—c’est symbolique, un coup de l’imagination, n’est-ce-pas?_” T. A.—(Catching the word) “That’s it—you’ve struck it; it sets our imagina-see-on to work. Also it’s a special swanky tune for marching to; makes you forget your poor feet. Like the tune, eh? Savvy? Tipperary—you ’preciate the air—_le music, tray bong, nace-pah_?” J. P. (Beaming) “_La musique—la mélodie—ah, oui, mais c’est_—how do you say him?” (triumphantly): “_Luv-lee!_” T. A.—(Enthusiastically) “Oh, good! _Bong garsong!_ You cottoned on beautifully that time, anyhow.” J. P.—“_Comment?_”