in boinyn water; three shots a puddy at up blup saddle; made up to the vicar’s joy and ruth; the gren, woid and glue been broking by the circuminsistence of the vicereeking squad and, in point of time now. Breathe thet deep. Thouat’s the fairway. Hurry slow and Scheldt you go. Lynd us your mespilt reception, will yous? — Pass the fish for Christ’s sake! — Old