“I’ve taken to playing golf,” explained the other, “and I—er—I find it difficult to restrain—er——”
“Ah, I see what you mean,” said the minister—“bad language.”
“Exactly,” replied the pillar of the church.
“Well, how would it be to put a stone in your pocket every time you found yourself using a wrong word, just as a reminder, you know?”
“The very thing!” exclaimed the deacon; “thank you so much!” and departed.
A few days later the worthy cleric was passing along the road which led to the links, when he met an individual whose clothes stuck out all over, with great, knobby lumps.
“Gracious me, Mr. Bagshawe!” he cried, as the object approached nearer, “is that really you?”
“Yes, it’s me,” grunted the voice of the deacon.
“Why, you don’t mean—surely all those are not the result of my suggestion?” continued the horrified parson, gazing at the telltale bulges.
“These!” snorted the other contemptuously; “why, these are only the ‘dash its.’ The others are coming along on a wheel-barrow.”