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WDS Publishing
The Submarine Boat
The Submarine Boat
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Tric-trac! tric-trac! went the black and white discs as the players
moved them over the backgammon board in expressive justification of the
French term for the game. Tric-trac! They are indeed a nation of poets,
reflected Mr Pringle. Was not Teuf-teuf! for the motor-car a veritable
inspiration? And as he smoked, the not unmusical clatter of the enormous
wooden discs filled the atmosphere.
In these days of cookery not entirely based upon air-tights--to use the
expressive Americanism for tinned meats--it is no longer necessary for
the man who wishes to dine, as distinguished from the mere feeding
animal, to furtively seek some restaurant in remote Soho, jealously
guarding its secret from his fellows. But Mr Pringle, in his favourite
study of human nature, was an occasional visitor to the 'Poissonière'
in Gerrard Street, and, the better to pursue his researches, had always
denied familiarity with the foreign tongues he heard around him. The
restaurant was distinctly close--indeed, some might have called it
stuffy--and Pringle, though near a ventilator, thoughtfully provided by
the management, was fast being lulled into drowsiness, when a man who
had taken his seat with a companion at the next table leaned across the
intervening gulf and addressed him.
'Nous ne vous dérangeons pas, monsieur?'
Pringle, with a smile of fatuous uncomprehending, bowed, but said never
a word.
'Cochon d'Anglais, n'entendez-vous pas?'
'I'm afraid I do not understand,' returned Pringle, shaking his head
hopelessly, but still smiling.
'Canaille! Faut-il que je vous tire le nez?' persisted the Frenchman,
as, apparently still sceptical of Pringle's assurance, he added threats
to abuse.
'I have known the English gentleman a long time, and without a doubt he
does not understand French,' testified the waiter who had now come
forward for orders. Satisfied by this corroboration of Pringle's
innocence, the Frenchman bowed and smiled sweetly to him, and, ordering
a bottle of Clos de Vougeot, commenced an earnest conversation with his
neighbour.
moved them over the backgammon board in expressive justification of the
French term for the game. Tric-trac! They are indeed a nation of poets,
reflected Mr Pringle. Was not Teuf-teuf! for the motor-car a veritable
inspiration? And as he smoked, the not unmusical clatter of the enormous
wooden discs filled the atmosphere.
In these days of cookery not entirely based upon air-tights--to use the
expressive Americanism for tinned meats--it is no longer necessary for
the man who wishes to dine, as distinguished from the mere feeding
animal, to furtively seek some restaurant in remote Soho, jealously
guarding its secret from his fellows. But Mr Pringle, in his favourite
study of human nature, was an occasional visitor to the 'Poissonière'
in Gerrard Street, and, the better to pursue his researches, had always
denied familiarity with the foreign tongues he heard around him. The
restaurant was distinctly close--indeed, some might have called it
stuffy--and Pringle, though near a ventilator, thoughtfully provided by
the management, was fast being lulled into drowsiness, when a man who
had taken his seat with a companion at the next table leaned across the
intervening gulf and addressed him.
'Nous ne vous dérangeons pas, monsieur?'
Pringle, with a smile of fatuous uncomprehending, bowed, but said never
a word.
'Cochon d'Anglais, n'entendez-vous pas?'
'I'm afraid I do not understand,' returned Pringle, shaking his head
hopelessly, but still smiling.
'Canaille! Faut-il que je vous tire le nez?' persisted the Frenchman,
as, apparently still sceptical of Pringle's assurance, he added threats
to abuse.
'I have known the English gentleman a long time, and without a doubt he
does not understand French,' testified the waiter who had now come
forward for orders. Satisfied by this corroboration of Pringle's
innocence, the Frenchman bowed and smiled sweetly to him, and, ordering
a bottle of Clos de Vougeot, commenced an earnest conversation with his
neighbour.