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What do you think, Susan, I met him on the road the other evenin' w'en takin' a stroll by myself down near the Glassyer day Bossong, an' I says to him, quite in a friendly way, `bong joor, says I, which is French, you know, an' what the natives here says when they're in good humour an' want to say `good-day, `all serene, `how are you off for soap? an' suchlike purlitenesses.
His gray shirt might have been of any nationality, so that on the whole he made quite a passable Frenchman. While they waited for darkness he paraded the trench, shrugging his shoulders, and gesticulating. "Bon joor, mays ong-fong," he remarked with a careless hand-wave. "Hey, gar-song! Donney-moi du pang eh du beurre, si voo play and donnay-moi swoy-song cans rapeed exploseef!
Allons infants dee la Pat-ree, La joor de glory is arrivay." Such bits of conversation may be of little interest, but they have the merit of being genuine. All of them were jotted down in my notebook at the times when I heard them. The following day we crowded into the typical French army troop train, eight chevaux or forty hommes to a car, and started on a leisurely journey to the firing-line.
"Bon jour l’ami Gargantua!" exclaimed the fat, jovial brigadier who had just emerged with boots shining, pipe-clay very apparent, and all rosy from a fresh shave. "Bong joor, mon vieux copain!" replied Burley, preoccupied with some papers he was sorting. "Be good enough to look over my papers." The brigadier took them and examined them. "Are they en règle?" demanded Burley.
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