In haste the poor man hastened to forward two penny stamps, and to apologise for not having stamped the letter he sent me.
"I really thought that I had stamped it," he wrote.
Then I wrote him a nice letter telling him that the mistake was mine, for his first letter had had a stamp on it after all. He never replied to that, and I suppose that now he goes about telling his friends that I am a fool, a silly ass, and a typical Scot.
Authors hear queer things about themselves. The other day a friend of mine asked for my Log in a West End library. As the librarian handed over the book she shook her head sadly.
"Isn't it sad about the man who wrote that book?" she said.
My friend was startled.
"Sad! What do you mean?"
"Oh, haven't you heard?" asked the librarian in surprise; "he's a confirmed drunkard now."
"Impossible!" cried my friend, "with whisky at ten and six a bottle!"
But I meant to write about colleagues. One day a class was holding a self-government meeting, and they sent for me. I was annoyed because I was having my after-dinner smoke in the staff-room. However I went up.