“I heard a good story last night. H. J. Byron, you know, the man that wrote the plays, was going down Regent Street the other day, and met Sothern, the actor. It was a very cold day, and Sothern, noticing that Byron was lightly clad, exclaimed, ‘What a fellow you are, Byron; you never wear a great-coat.’ ‘No,’ said Byron, ‘I never was.’
“They all laughed consumedly, and in the middle of their laughter a girl friend called, and asked what was the joke.
“‘Oh,’ said one, ‘such a funny story the Doctor has just told us. Lord Byron, you know, that wrote the poetry, was going down—what street was it, Doctor?’
“‘Well, it’s immaterial, but it was Regent Street.’
“‘Oh, thanks, yes; and he met—who was it?’
“‘Sothern, the actor.’
“‘Of course, yes:’ and so he said to Sothern, ‘you never wear a great coat;’ so he said, ‘No, I never do.’ (Renewed laughter.)
“The caller pondered, and then remarked that she was awfully stupid, but she didn’t see the joke. The narrator pondered also, and finally confessed, ‘No more do I now, but we laughed very much when the Doctor told us.’”
I told the whole story to a friend, and he supplied me with a variant from a lower stratum of society. A Lancashire man went with a friend into a tailor’s shop to buy a coat. One was produced, and the purchaser asked the friend for his opinion.
“Seems a bit short, don’t it?” said the friend.