"All the guns in the world won't save England unless they're reloadable." Scoresby declared knowledgeably a short time later. "That was the primary failing of our brave Militia men, the first wave were easily taken down but by the time the guns were reloaded with more shot, the zombies were upon them."
"Must you say that word?" John complained, his expression showing his disgust. William peered closer out the window, disregarding the conversation as mundane. Scoresby shook his dark curling head in pity, "but, that is what they are, Franklin! They aren't our resurrected loved ones ready to be embraced to our unwilling bosoms, but, zombies searching for brains!"
"I agree with Mister Scoresby on all those points, yet everyone but he considers it impolite to mention their taste for cauliflower-like organs." William contributed, having lost interest in watching an unmentionable dog drag itself after their carriage.
"Finally a convert!" Scoresby declared, seeming to discard a portion of Parry's statement. Franklin sighed at the obliviousness of the man, clutching a posy-scented handkerchief to his cringing nostrils. Adzooks! It was like August on the Thames, the smell was so incredibly bad.
"You know I have at this very time, invented a gadget which will solve some of our weaponry woes-"
Franklin spoke around him, "describe to me again the circumstances in which you found yourself with just a riding crop to defend yourself on a back Country road, William. It was a very entertaining story."
"My pleasure," replied the latter. "Not long ago during Springtime, that I-"
"Is anyone listening to me?" Scoresby interrupted, eyes that could hypnotize a polar bear, flashing with perceived indignation.
William and John glanced at each other. No one least of all them wanted to be privy to Scoresby's trumpeted genius. "Relate it to us some other time, old chap." Franklin said soothingly, motioning for William to continue.
Relieved, Parry, started afresh while Scoresby pouted in the background.