“No, was he?”
“He said you just sat there looking at him like a goldfish.”
“Oh, I say!” said Mr. Braddock remorsefully. “I’m awfully sorry. I mean, after he’s been so decent, putting me up and everything. I hope you explained to him that I was frightfully worried about this speech.”
“Yes, I did. But I don’t see why you should be. It’s perfectly simple making a speech. Especially at an Old Boys’ dinner, where they won’t expect anything very much. If I were you, I should just get up and tell them one or two funny stories and sit down again.”
“I’ve got one story,” said Mr. Braddock more hopefully. “It’s about an Irishman.”
“Pat or Mike?”
“I thought of calling him Pat. He’s in New York and he goes down to the dock and he sees a diver coming up out of the water—in a diving suit, you know—and he thinks the fellow—the diver, you understand—has walked across the Atlantic and wishes he had thought of doing the same himself, so as to have saved the fare, don’t you know.”
“I see. One of those weak-minded Irishmen.”
“Do you think it will amuse them?” asked Mr. Braddock anxiously.
“I should think they would roll off their seats.”