“Come, Mr. Wilson,” broke in at the door from a fireman, “you have not a moment to lose.”
“Yes, yes. Coming,” replied Wilson absently.
He was looking for a special illuminated volume very dear to him.
“Come, Wilson,” cried his manager; “come, get out!”
“All right, all right,” said Wilson, and, grabbing some clothes in one hand, he snatched with the other the nearest volume and ran to the street. There he looked at the huge volume in his arms. It was the city directory.
A city gentleman was recently invited down to the country for “a day with the birds.” His aim was not remarkable for its accuracy, to the great disgust of the man in attendance, whose tip was generally regulated by the size of the bag.
“Dear me!” at last exclaimed the sportsman, “but the birds seem exceptionally strong on the wing this year.”
“Not all of ’em, sir,” was the answer. “You’ve shot at the same bird about a dozen times. ’E’s a-follerin’ you about, sir.”
“Following me about? Nonsense! Why should a bird do that?”