ALL LIARS’ DAY.
“So it’s ——’s birthday to-day,” said Fortescue (naming a very well-known politician) as he looked up from his newspaper. “You’ll call and wish him many happy returns, of course, Ferguson?”
We who travel up together each morning by this train are pretty well agreed about ——.
“Don’t mention that man to me!” cried Ferguson. “He’s absolutely the biggest liar on earth. I can’t imagine how he faces the world as he does after having been exposed so many times. You’d think he would want to crawl away into a hole somewhere. He can’t have the least sense of shame.”
“Pardon me,” interrupted the burly stranger seated in the corner. “Pardon me; there is reason why he should. It is not his fault if he is addicted to inexactitude. He was predestined to it. It is the irresistible influence of the day on which he was born. Every man born on this day must inevitably grow up to be a liar; it is his fate, from which there can be no escape.”
“Oh, come!” protested Ferguson. “That sounds rather far-fetched, you know, for these days.”
“My dear Sir,” retorted the other, brushing up his moustache aggressively and glaring at Ferguson, “I happen to be President of the Society for the Investigation of Natal Day Influences upon Character, so I presume I may claim to know what I am talking about.”
So truculent was his demeanour that nobody ventured to speak.