The other day I was having tea here when two old buffers came in--dug-outs, shoved into some job or another--and they sat down at the table next mine.

I couldn't help hearing what they said.

The older and fatter, a Colonel, looked out of window, and remarked ponderously: "'By the way, wasn't Joan of Arc born about here ?' "'No,' said the second; 'down in Alsace-Lorraine, I believe.

She was burnt here, and they threw her ashes into the Grand Pont.'" Peter laughed silently, and the other smiled at him.

"Fact," he said.
"That's one type of ass, and the second is (dropping his voice) your friend here and his like, if you don't mind my saying so.