MISS TROTTER. Well, I guess it would be about as luxurious if it hadn't got a chunk of wood nailed down the middle--it's not going to have any one confusing it with a bed of roses _just_ yet. (_To_ PODB.) Your friend mad about anything? He don't seem to open his head more'n he's obliged to. I presume he don't approve of your taking up with me and father--he keeps away from us considerable, I notice. PODB. (_awkwardly_). Oh--er--I wouldn't say that, but he's a queer kind of chap rather, takes prejudices into his head and all that. I wouldn't trouble about him if I were you--not worth it, y' know. MISS T. Thanks--but it isn't going to shorten my existence any. [CULCH. _overhears all this, with feelings that may be imagined._ BELGIAN DRIVER (_to his horses_). Pullep! Allez vite! Bom-bom-bom! Alright! CONDUCTOR (_to_ CULCHARD). 'E's very proud of 'is English, _'e_ is. 'Ere, Jewls, ole feller, show the gen'lm'n 'ow yer can do a swear. (_Belgian Driver utters a string of English imprecations with the utmost fluency and good-nature._) 'Ark at 'im now! Bust my frogs! (_Admiringly, and not_ _without a sense of the appropriateness of the phrase._) But he's a caution, Sir, ain't he? _I_ taught him most o' what he knows! A FRENCH PASSENGER (_to_ CONDUCTOR). Dis donc, mon ami, est-ce qu'on peut voir d'ici le champ de bataille? COND. (_with proper pride_). It ain't no use your torkin _to me_, Mossoo; I don't speak no French myself. (_To_ CULCHARD.) See that field there, Sir? CULCH. (_interested_). On the right? Yes; what happened _there_? COND. Fine lot o' rabbits inside o' there--big fat 'uns. (_To another Passenger._) No, Sir, that ain't Belly Lions as you see from 'ere; that's Mon Sin Jeean, and over there Oogymong, and Challyroy to the left. ON THE TOP OF THE MOUND. CULCHARD, _who has purchased a map in the Waterloo Museum as a means of approaching_ MISS TROTTER, _is pounced upon by an elderly Belgian Guide in a blue blouse, from whom he finds it difficult to escape._ THE GUIDE (_fixing_ CULCHARD _with a pair of rheumy eyes and a gnarled forefinger_). You see vere is dat schmall voodt near de vite 'ouse? not dere, along my shdeek--so. Dat is vare Peecton vas kill, Inglis Officer, Peecton. Two days pefore he was voundet in de ahum. 'E say to his sairvan', "You dell ennipoddies, I keel you!" He vandt to pe in ze bataille: he _vas_ in ze bataille--seven lance troo 'im, seven; Peecton, Inglis Officer. (CULCHARD _nods his head miserably._) Hah, you 'ave de shart dere--open 'im out vide, dat de odder shentilmans see. (CULCHARD _obeys, spell-bound._) Vare you see dat blue gross, Vaterloo Shirshe, vere Loart Uxbreedge lose 'is laig. Zey cot 'im off and pury him in ze cottyardt, and a villow grow oudt of 'im. 'E com 'ere to see the villow growing oudt of his laig. CULCH. (_abandoning his map, and edging towards_ MISS TROTTER). Hem--we are gazing upon one of the landmarks of our national history--Miss Trotter.