ats I have had with this wonder man, I have always found his
English fluent, but a bit on the mixed side. If you remember, he was with
Mrs. Bingo Little for a time before coming to Brinkley, and no doubt he
picked up a good deal from Bingo. Before that, he had been a couple of
years with an American family at Nice and had studied under their
chauffeur, one of the Maloneys of Brooklyn. So, what with Bingo and what
with Maloney, he is, as I say, fluent but a bit mixed.

He spoke, in part, as follows:

"Hot dog! You ask me what is it? Listen. Make some attention a little.
Me, I have hit the hay, but I do not sleep so good, and presently I wake
and up I look, and there is one who make faces against me through the
dashed window. Is that a pretty affair? Is that convenient? If you think
I like it, you jolly well mistake yourself. I am so mad as a wet hen. And
why not? I am somebody, isn't it? This is a bedroom, what-what, not a
house for some apes? Then for what do blighters sit on my window so cool
as a few cucumbers, making some faces?"

"Quite," I said. Dashed reasonable, was my verdict.

He threw another look up at Gussie, and did Exercise 2--the one where you
clutch the moustache, give it a tug and then start catching flies.

"Wait yet a little. I am not finish. I say I see this type on my window,
making a few faces. But what then? Does he buzz off when I shout a cry,
and leave me peaceable? Not on your life. He remain planted there, not
giving any damns, and sit regarding me like a cat watching a duck. He
make faces against me and again he make faces against me, and the more I
command that he should get to hell out of here, the more he do not get to
hell out of here. He cry something towards me, and I demand what is his
desire, but he do not explain. Oh, no, that arrives never. He does but
shrug his head. What damn silliness! Is this amusing for me? You think I
like it? I am not content with such folly. I think the poor mutt's loony.
_Je me fiche de ce type infect. C'est idiot de faire comme ca
l'oiseau.... Allez-vous-en, louffier_.... Tell the boob to go away. He is
mad as some March hatters."

I must say I thought he was making out a jolly good case, and evidently
Aunt Dahlia felt the same. She laid a quivering hand on his shoulder.

"I will, Monsieur Anatole, I will," she said, and I couldn't have
believed that robust voice capable of sinking to such an absolute coo.
More like a turtle dove calling to its mate