But as soon as I began to listen to his speech, and I may say he hardly ever left off talking, I had further cause for wonderment.

I should say that his language was quite as grotesque as his appearance, if not more so. Characterized, as it was, by incessant, deliberate, and, as it were, vindictive distortions and vulgarizations of the language and its correct accent, I had never heard the like of it. The fact that, in the town of Nwotsemaht, all bus-conductors, all bus-drivers, all taxi-drivers, all engine-drivers, in fact all those employed in the more menial side of transport, talked in the same way, I did not then know. Nor did I know that it was a recognized thing—that such workers were, by the ordinance of some rigid Moribundian law, chosen only from the ranks of a class of beings known as Yenkcocs, who could think and enunciate in this way and in no other. Eventually I got hardened to it, but to one used to the smooth, quiet, reasonable accent of an average London bus-conductor (possibly a little coloured by the locality in which he has been born, but nothing more), it was at first positively agonizing to hear.

As this Moribundian Yenkcoc language is like nothing that has ever been heard on earth, just as the exterior of the Yenkcoc bus-conductor was like nothing that has ever been seen on earth, it is not easy for me to give a satisfactory impression of it here.

If I gave a list of the obscure and extraordinary expressions—such as: ‘Blimey,’ ‘Crikey,’ ‘Cripes,’ ‘Bloomin’,’ ‘Blinkin’,’ ‘Ruddy,’ ‘S’welp-me,’ ‘Coo,’ ‘Struth,’ ‘Strike me pink,’ ‘Yerdontsay,’ ‘Gawd,’ ‘Lorblessyer,’ ‘Lorluverduck,’ ‘Arfamo,’ ‘Lumme,’ etc.—without uttering one, or several of which expressions, the Moribundian Yenkcoc is hardly able to utter a sentence—I might go on for ever. But these expressions play only a minor role in the hideousness and uncouthness of the general effect—which is obtained for the most part by wilful, you might say fervent, misplacing of aspirates, and the equally impassioned substitution of a wrong vowel-sound for the correct one whenever possible. However, I will continue my narrative, and the reader will be able to judge for himself.

It so happened that shortly after the conductor’s coming inside to collect the fares, the driver, who had, so I thought, been driving very fast, was forced suddenly to swerve in order to avoid a cart. Although there was no damage done an old lady sitting opposite me (who belonged to a short-sighted, school-mistressy, prim, fussy type, of which I later saw a good deal in Moribundia, and learned to identify as the Retsnips type) was considerably shaken in her seat, and she ventured to say to the conductor that she thought the driver was going too fast.

“Horlright! Horlright! hold gal!” said, or rather yelled, this extraordinary conductor. “Keep yer ’air on! Keep yer ’air on! That is,” he added, so that everybody could hear, but giving the old lady a salacious and knowing wink the like of which I had never seen, “that is, if it is yer ’air, lidy, an’ haint not nobody helses!”

And at this he went off into fits of the wildest laughter, which shook his whole body as it might have been shaken by an electrical machine. When he had recovered from this he spoke again.

“Looks like my mate,” he said, beaming all over, “wants to get back to ’is missiz!” And at this he went to one of the windows, thrust his head out in the most inconsequent way, and hailed the driver.

“Wotcher, Alf!” he cried, to gain his attention.

“Wotcher, Bert!” cried the driver to signify he had heard.

I have here to confess that I have not the slightest idea of the meaning of this expression ‘Wotcher’—but no Yenkcoc in Moribundia ever greets a friend, when he is any distance away from him, without making use of it. I may also fittingly remark, at this point, that in obedience to some caste tradition, which I do not understand, the only Christian names which the parents of Yenkcocs are able to bestow upon their male children, are ‘Bert,’ ‘Alf,’ ‘Bill’ or ‘Fred.’ ‘Fred,’ actually, is rare. The surname of the Moribundian Yenkcoc is almost equally restricted: if he is not called Muggins he is called Juggins, and if he is not called Juggins he is called Buggins, and if he is not called Buggins he is called Sproggins.10 Again, you might occasionally come across a rarer form, such as Higgins (or Wiggins), but the termination ‘gins’ is rigidly adhered to, and it is never preceded by more than one syllable.

“Curb that there blinkin’ himpetuous temperryment o’ yourn, mate!” the conductor now yelled to the driver. “There’s an ole gal in ’ere wot’s gettin’ ’er false teeth rattled!”

“Horlright! Horlright!” yelled back the driver, whom I could see through the glass at the front, and whose corpulence, geniality, and liberality of moustache were on an even larger scale than that attained by his friend (while his bulbous nose burned with so fierce a ray, that, for an area of an inch or so around it, it definitely set up a sort of glaring white light which prevented me from seeing the scenery beyond it). “Horlways willin’ to hoblige a young leddy, lorblessyer!”

I do not know what the reader will have made of this dialogue up to now, or whether he will have felt in any degree what I felt very strongly at the time—surprise, not unmixed with chivalrous resentment, at what appeared to be gratuitous insolence brought to bear against a defenceless middle-aged lady. She had, in fact, been insulted outright four times in succession. She had first of all been told ‘to keep her hair on,’ which implied that she was in such an absurd state of excitement that it might fly off. It had then been suggested that it was not really her hair at all—that she was wearing a wig. After that, it had been definitely stated that her teeth were false (which no doubt they were, but there was no need to call attention to the matter). Finally the driver had called her a ‘young lady’ in a sarcastic manner deliberately adopted to make clear the fact that she was no longer young.

It was on the tip of my tongue, in fact, to call these men to order. But I desisted for two reasons. Firstly, as I explained before, I dreaded making myself conspicuous. Secondly, I saw that the faces of those around me, so far from reflecting the resentment and anger rising in my own breast, bore instead a look of complacent approbation (not unmixed, perhaps, with a faintly bored look, as of people who had witnessed the same sort of scene many times before) which was very difficult to understand.

It was fortunate enough, as it happened, that I did desist from making any protest, as I do not know what might have happened to me had I done otherwise—something, possibly, very serious indeed.

The fact is that this sort of behaviour on the part of this class of person is, in Moribundia, looked upon with the greatest possible favour. Indeed, known as Yenkcoc Ruomuh—which means, roughly translated, ‘the high spirits of the Nwotsemaht labouring man’—it is regarded with semi-religious respect. To deride, to criticize, or to doubt the existence of what is called eht Gniliafnu Doog Ruomuh fo eht Gnikrow Sessalc (‘the incessantly gay temperament of the lower orders’) is to call into question something which Moribundia holds dearest to its heart; and anyone so foolish, or, as I nearly was, so ignorant as to do so, might easily incur danger to his life. For Moribundians are in certain respects ruthless, as we shall see.

This may seem fantastic to people of our world—I mean to pay such profound, almost fetishistic homage to a type represented by this absurd bus-conductor—but I am not so sure that it is so. It must be remembered that this class is unlike anything we know in England. To make any comparison between the stupendous creature I have just described and the thin, quiet, sallow-faced, usually slightly dyspeptic and surly person in blue we encounter in an average London bus, would be quite absurd. Moribundia realizes, quite reasonably, I think, that this class, with its peculiar temperament, forms one of the most precious elements of its general well-being. For without these high spirits, this incessant and illogical cheerfulness, this delicious gaiety under irksome and difficult tasks, this taking of everything as a joke, it is doubtful whether any of the vaster Moribundian undertakings—such as, for instance, protracted wars (in which, alas, Moribundians are still, against all their dearest wishes and instincts, compelled to engage)—could be undertaken at all. Moribundia appreciates the fact, knows, if you like, which side its bread is buttered.