Miss S.—“Was it very hot where you have come from?”
Funny Man—“Why, Jack, you seem to believe in a lot of things nobody else believes in”—(then, as a clincher)—“I suppose you believe in the transmigration of souls!”
Solemn Man—“I do—and so do you. You must feel you were an ass when you lent me that half-sovereign six months ago.”
Socialistic Journalist (to admiring friends)—“Have you read my articles in the X Y Gazette? No? Well, read them, and you will see that I am the second, if not the first, among the teachers of humanity. Nobody, for at least eighteen hundred years, has taught as I have taught.”
Waiter, suddenly entering the bar—“Oh, I beg your pardon, but you did not pay for that steak you had in the room.”
Socialistic Journalist—“Pay for it! Not likely! It was from the beginning as much my steak as Charlie Moore’s. Now it is more mine than his. Pay? Base is the slave that pays.”
Racing Journalist—“Jones is a good writer, but he will never set the Thames on fire.”
Impecunious Reporter—“I wish he would, for it’s very cold, and I have to sleep on the Embankment.”
The story goes that on one occasion there was some little misunderstanding at the bar; but misunderstandings are of the rarest, and this one has become legendary. The account which reached me ran something after this manner:—
Great Sub-Editor (with back to fire)—“You’re not a freemason.”