"Sandwich?! Excellent! Lead on!" Bernard flailed and his legs jerked into a ghastly parody of a forward marh, and he got to the end of the street before realising that he had no idea where he was going and probably should wait for the ridiculously British stranger to catch up with him and point the way.
As Bertie caught up, so did Bernard's usual base-level apathy and curmudgeonly mood. Jamming his hands into his pockets, he sloped along beside Bertie, the very picture of a bold schoolboy who has been forcibly aged twenty years while on detention, after someone has nicked his lunch money and jam sandwiches.
The pair had gotten almost four steps across the next junction when the rest of what Bertie had said caught up to Bernard, and he stopped dead, while an expression of absolute horror and revulsion looked all around and listened before it crossed his face.