Our conductor stopped.
"Where d'yer want to go to?" he asked her severely--"Strand--Charing
Cross?"
The Frenchman did not hear or did not understand the first part of the
speech, but he caught the words "Charing Cross," and bounced up and out
on to the step. The conductor collared him as he was getting off, and
jerked him back savagely.
"Carn't yer keep still a minute," he cried indignantly; "blessed if you
don't want lookin' after like a bloomin' kid."
"I vont to be put down at Sharing Cross," answered the Frenchman, humbly.
"You vont to be put down at Sharing Cross," repeated the other bitterly,
as he led him back to his seat. "I shall put yer down in the middle of
the road if I 'ave much more of yer. You stop there till I come and
sling yer out. I ain't likely to let yer go much past yer Sharing Cross,
I shall be too jolly glad to get rid o' yer."
The poor Frenchman subsided, and we jolted on. At "The Angel" we, of
course, stopped. "Charing Cross," shouted the conductor, and up sprang
the Frenchman.
"Oh, my Gawd," said the conductor, taking him by the shoulders and
forcing him down into the corner seat, "wot am I to do? Carn't somebody
sit on 'im?"
He held him firmly down until the 'bus started, and then released him. At
the top of Chancery Lane the same scene took place, and the poor little
Frenchman became exasperated.
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