J. P.—“‘A long, long way’ off eet, _hein_? But why so very far to this place you sing of? And why do you celebrate it so loudly on your marching?”
T. A.—(Puzzled) “Blowed if I know. It’s a long way because—you see, you’d have to cross the Channel; then first on the left and straight on till you board the Irish packet; then—ask a policeman. See?”
J. P.—(Sadly) “_Ah, oui, oui. Je ne comprends pas—mille regrets._”
T. A.—“You no comprenny, eh? Same here—left my geography home on the piano, else I’d put it clearer.” (An idea comes to him.) “You see, it’s like this: we take Tipperary as kind of representative—oh, _very_ hot. Now I’m oratin’. Twig?”
T. A.—(Very earnestly, explaining to himself as well as his friend) “Means lots of things, Tipperary—home, the girl, a square feed, plenty of ’baccy, and the old pals, you know; all signified by the word ‘Tipperary.’ Understand? We pack it up tight for convenience in transport, and when we sing it, it all comes out—the jolly things we’ve left behind. Got it?”
J. P.—(Smiling happily) “_Ah, bien entendu_—you ‘pack it’—ze Irish packet of which you have spoke, is it not?”
T. A.—(Groaning softly) “Oh, Lord! Cheese it, Frenchie—you make me perspire. What I mean is, when we _sing_ ‘Tipperary’ it _reminds_ us of all these things. And we like it. Makes us feel nice all over.”
J. P.—(Joyously) “_Voilà—comme c’est bon—c’est symbolique, un coup de l’imagination, n’est-ce-pas?_”
T. A.—(Catching the word) “That’s it—you’ve struck it; it sets our imagina-see-on to work. Also it’s a special swanky tune for marching to; makes you forget your poor feet. Like the tune, eh? Savvy? Tipperary—you ’preciate the air—_le music, tray bong, nace-pah_?”
J. P. (Beaming) “_La musique—la mélodie—ah, oui, mais c’est_—how do you say him?” (triumphantly): “_Luv-lee!_”
T. A.—(Enthusiastically) “Oh, good! _Bong garsong!_ You cottoned on beautifully that time, anyhow.”
T. A.-“Come on? Where? Oh, I see—one of _your_ words. Well?”
J. P.—“But, tell me, eet is how long—how far—to Teeperary?”
T. A.—(Desperately) “Now look here, old dear; I’ve had enough of this. You take it from me there’s some things you bally well _can’t_ get the hang of, and this is one of ’em. Never mind; _donny-moi_ one of those funny little black fags of yours and we’ll toddle to a _caffy_ and drink to William the Conqueror—I _don’t_ think. Come on!”