“Caddy,” he said, addressing the youth who stood alongside, “that was awful, wasn’t it?”
“Purty bad, sir.”
“I’ll have to confess that I am the worst golfer in the world,” continued the actor.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, sir,” purred the caddy, soothingly.
“Did you ever see a worse player than I am?”
“No, sir, I never did,” confessed the boy truthfully; “but some of the other boys was tellin’ me yistiddy about a gentleman that must be a worse player than what you are. They said his name was Walker-Smith.”
§ 318 On Her Own Motive Power
I am reliably informed that this one really happened down in Winston-Salem, which is the only town in North Carolina that parts its name with a hyphen. A lady who lives there was my informant. She heard it from her pantry window one summer afternoon.
Her cook, Aunt Cilly, was sitting in the kitchen door. The organizer of a new lodge was entreating Aunt Cilly to become a charter member. At length and with eloquence he painted the advantages of belonging to the society. He pointed out its manifold advantages. To begin with, it had a beautiful name made up of noble long words. Its ritual was impressive, its uniform dazzling. Practically every member would hold office, and so forth and so on.
In silence Aunt Cilly harkened until the solicitor ran dry. Then she spoke: