The Opt.  Husb. You needn’t go all the way down again, when the steps join like that!

The P.M. I’m not going to walk sideways—­I’m not a crab, JOE, whatever you may think. (JOE assents, with reservations).  Now wherever have those other two got to? ’urrying off that way!  Oh, there they are.  ‘Ere, LIZZIE and JEM, keep along o’ me and Father, do, or we shan’t see half of what’s to be seen!

Lizzie.  Oh, all right, Ma; don’t you worry so! (To JEM, her fiance.) Don’t those tall fellows look smart with the red feathers in their cocked ’ats?  What do they call them?

Jem (a young man, who thinks for himself).  Well, I shouldn’t wonder if those were the parties they call “Doges”—­sort o’ police over there, d’ye see?

Lizzie.  They’re ’andsomer than ’elmets, I will say that for them. (They enter Modern Venice, amidst cries of “This way for Gondoala Tickets!  Pass along, please!  Keep to your right!" &c., &c.) It does have a foreign look, with all those queer names written up.  Think it’s like what it is, JEM?

Jem.  Bound to be, with all the money they’ve spent on it.  I daresay they’ve idle-ised it a bit, though.

The P.M. Where are all these kinals they talk so much about?  I don’t see none!

Jem (as a break in the crowd reveals a narrow olive-green channel).  Why, what d’ye call that, Ma?

The P.M. That a kinal!  Why, you don’t mean to tell me any barge ’ud—­

The Opt.  Husb. Go on!—­you didn’t suppose you’d find the Paddington Canal in these parts, did you?  This is big enough for all they want. (A gondola goes by lurchily, crowded with pot-hatted passengers, smoking pipes, and wearing the uncomfortable smile of children enjoying their first elephant-ride.) That’s one o’ these ’ere gondoalers—­it’s a rum-looking concern, ain’t it?  But I suppose you get used to ’em—­(philosophically)—­like everything else!

The P.M. It gives me the creeps to look at ’em.  Talk about ’earses!

The Opt.  Husb. Well, look ’ere, we’ve come out to enjoy ourselves—­what d’ye say to having a ride in one, eh?

The P.M. You won’t ketch me trusting myself in one o’ them tituppy things, so don’t you deceive yourself!

The Opt.  Husb. Oh, it’s on’y two foot o’ warm water if you do tip over. Come on! (Hailing Gondolier, who has just landed his cargo.) ’Ere, ’ow much’ll you take the lot of us for, hey?

Gondolier (gesticulating).  Teekits! you tek teekits—­la—­you vait!

Jem.  He means we’ve got to go to the orfice and take tickets and stand in a cue, d’yer see?

The P.M. Me go and form a cue down there and get squeeged like at the Adelphi Pit, all to set in a rickety gondoaler!  I can see all I want to see without messing about in one o’ them things!