“Good heavens!” exclaimed the dramatist, looking reproachfully at Tinfoil. “Why, not the pig?”
Tinfoil somewhat abashed coughed and nodded.
“Why, you said that nothing on earth would tempt you to eat that pig.”
“No more it could, Sir,” cried the assured manager, “no, Sir—no more it could—unless salted!”
Of how many applications is this casuistry of the manager susceptible?
“When, Sir,” cried the pensioned patriot, “I swore that no power in the universal world could make me accept a favour at the hands of such men—I meant——”
“Unless salted!”
How often is it with men’s principles, as with the manager’s pig; things inviolable, immutable—unless salted?
