“What is that you hold in your hand?” demanded the now affrighted customer, trying to get a sight at the article.
“That, sir, is a revolver; loaded, sir.”
NOT A STOMACH-PUMP.
“O, d—— that; I don’t care a continental for a revolver; I’ve got one myself. I was afraid it was a stomach-pump!”
“What’s Trumps?”
Mrs. Bray, in her book of Anecdotes, relates a story illustrative of the power of the ruling passion.
“A Devonshire physician, boasting the not untradesman-like name of Vial, was a desperate lover of the game of whist. One evening, during his opponent’s deal, he fell to the floor in a fit. Consternation seized on the company, who knew not if the doctor was dead or alive. Finally he showed signs of returning life, and retaining the last cherished idea that had possessed him on falling into the fit, he resumed his chair, exclaiming, ‘What’s trumps, boys?’”