And if, in this magnificent realization of the magnificent ideal of contentment, of constant day-to-day humour, the poor uneducated fellows occasionally take a liberty with their superiors, it is cheerfully and gratefully overlooked, if not definitely loved for its own sake. I may be wrong, but I should personally like to see Moribundian conductors on our own buses.

However, my view was not adjusted at that time, and my surprises had only just begun.

The conductor was now standing over the middle-aged lady, waiting to take her fare. This was a long time coming, as she did nothing but fumble in the depths of her bag, and seemed quite unable to produce the coin she wanted. At the same time she muttered irritably and fussily to herself, and nodded her head in a silly way.

The truth was that I was beginning to lose my sympathy for this lady. Of course, had I known that, in acting thus, she was merely making manifest the unalterable characteristics of every member of the Retsnips class, I might have made some allowance for her. As it was, her extreme plainness filled me with gloom, and her manners irritated me more and more.

She did eventually produce a coin—a florin. (The coinage of Moribundia so closely resembles our own that I can speak of florins, half-crowns, sixpences, etc.11) Now as she was only taking a short journey, for which the fare was only one penny, this florin was, of course, far in excess of the fare, and it was necessary for the conductor to give her a lot of change. As this was inconvenient for him, she had the grace to apologize to him.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “that I haven’t a copper, conductor.”

“Bless yer ’art, lidy—don’t take hon so!” replied the conductor, at the same time cautiously biting the coin to see that it was a genuine one. “You’re goaner ’ave twenty-three in arfamo!”

Now this reply (though undeniably rather rude) struck me as being extraordinarily witty, and I nearly burst out laughing. But the others, accustomed from childhood, as I now know, to the resource and sparkle of Yenkcoc Ruomuh, seemed to think nothing of it. Also, to tell the truth, they seemed to me to have the expression of people who have heard ‘this one’ more times than they cared to remember.

As I watched the conductor slowly and solemnly counting out the twenty-three coins into the wretched woman’s hand, it suddenly occurred to me that it was my turn next—that I had to pay my fare! Why had I not thought of this, and what was I going to do? Where did I want to go in any case? While my thoughts were still in a semi-paralysed state, the conductor finished with his other customer, and stood in front of me, waiting for my money.

“Er—” I muttered, in a bewildered way. “Do you—er—want the money for my fare?”

“Crikey, no, gent! Nothin’ like thet!” said the conductor. “Me an’ Bert’s just come aht fer a ruddy joy-ride! Ain’t we, Bert?” he shouted out of the window.

“Gorblimey—yus! Course we ’ave, Alf,” shouted back the driver. “Just to look at the bloomin’, blinkin’, blanketty-blank scenery—wot?”

While the two men continued to make fun of me in this droll manner, I dived in desperation into my pocket, and produced a sixpence. Mistaking this for a Moribundian piece, as anyone might have done, the conductor gave me a ticket in exchange for it, and no change. It was a great piece of good fortune that he thus absent-mindedly presumed that this was the ticket I was wanting. Had there been any further discussion I should probably have been discovered then and there. During all my stay in Moribundia I was never so near being found out as I was at that moment.

In the next three or four minutes, nothing, I think, of particular interest occurred. The bus, somewhat erratically and furiously driven, I noticed, forged ahead into streets growing more thickly populated every moment, and the stopping places grew more and more frequent.

At one of these stopping places two people got off, and three more got on. The first of these was a girl, so gloriously slim, clear-skinned and pretty that she took my breath away; the next was a big, dark, aggressive-looking man with a long nose and black tortoise-shell spectacles of a thickness and magnitude such as I have never seen on earth; the last was a gentleman whose face was swathed round and round with what I took to be flannel, and from whose right cheek there protruded the most horrible bulge. I was horrified at his appearance at the time, but later found out that the disease from which he was suffering was nothing graver than common toothache. In Moribundia toothache invariably takes this violent form—a state which has also been frequently depicted by such artists as Samoht and Rehtafsnriab. It is perhaps due to the Moribundians’ nervous dread of going to their dentists, outside whose houses they will often walk about for hours on end, before summoning up the courage to go in.

As the beautiful girl sat down, she happened to cross her legs in order to get into a more comfortable position, and in so doing lifted her skirt almost to the level of her knee. If only you could have seen the look which came across the Retsnips’ face at this!—the horror, the stiffening, the upturned nose, the sour-visaged and Puritanical disapproval! But it was clear to anyone that, thwarted in her own life, she was bitterly jealous of the other’s good looks and youth.

As soon as the aggressive-looking man in the tortoise-shell spectacles had settled in his seat, he began to look around him, and talk at random to anyone who cared to listen. He had the most harsh, grating, nasal voice, and such a boastful, arrogant air that I at once took a dislike to him. The other people in the bus liked him no better, but seemed to take him very much for granted. Actually, there are hundreds upon hundreds of these vain, boastful people, roaming about all over Moribundia and making themselves offensive—particularly in the summer months and amidst scenes of old-world dignity. They are known as Snacirema. Their speech, again like nothing I have ever heard on earth, is indescribably hideous and difficult to render, but I must make the best attempt I can.

“Say, Bo,” he said sneeringly, looking round to criticize something the moment he had sat down, and lighting a huge cigar, or cheroot, the fumes of which nearly choked us all. “Whaddya call this lil’ tin can—an automobeel?”

“Yus, mate—wot’s the matter with it?” said the conductor, for the moment nonplussed.

“Waal, Bo,” replied the Nacirema, “I jes kinda guess we got real buses back in my countree. Yes, sir! Yep!” And at this he spat upon the floor.

The conductor was quick to recover himself.

“Well, chum,” he said.