§ 30 The Gift of Tongues
Over in France the average doughboy had a gorgeous confidence in his ability to speak the language of the country. In a Norman village one day a perplexed looking private, who had not been abroad very long, approached a seasoned campaigner of the A. E. F. and asked the latter if he spoke French.
“Sure I speak French,” said the veteran. “What’s the matter?”
“Here’s what’s the matter,” said the green soldier. “The Frog that keeps that shop yonder across the street sold me some post cards, and I gave him a ten franc note, and now he’s holding out part of my money on me. I wish you’d come on over there with me and straighten the thing out and make that guy hand me back what’s coming to me.”
“Sure I will,” said the other.
Moved by curiosity, a friend of mine trailed behind them, arriving just in time to hear the following dialogue between the linguist and the storekeeper:
“Parley voo Fransay?”
“Oui, oui, Monsieur.”
“Then, why the hell don’t you give this here boy his right change?”