Sheridan. “Surely, sir, you are not looking for King Street?”
Stranger (growing more impatient). “I tell you, sir, it is a street with a very odd name.”
Sheridan. “Bless me, sir, it is not Queen Street, is it?”
Stranger (evincing some degree of irritation). “Queen Street! no, no! it is a sort of a curious name, I tell you.”
Sheridan. “I wish, sir, I could assist you: let me think. It may be Oxford Street?”
Stranger (getting testy). “Sir, for Heaven’s sake, think; I keep telling you, that it is a street with any thing but a common name; any body knows Oxford Street.”
Sheridan. “Perhaps, the street has no name after all.”
Stranger. “No name, sir! Why, I tell you it has,—confound the name!”
Sheridan. “Really, sir, I am very sorry that I am unable to assist you; but let me suggest Piccadilly.”
The stranger could no longer restrain his irritation, but bounced away, exclaiming, “Oh, damn it, what a thick-headed fellow!” Sheridan, calling to him and bowing, replied, “Sir, I envy your admirable memory;” then walked on, enjoying his joke.[A]