"I fancy you are wrong," put in the Doctor. "I think my look-out worse than yours. Sold my practice seven years ago to flutter on the Stock Exchange. Lost my money in seven minutes, and have never had a patient since. I went to West Slocum (my old home) the other day, and found the place occupied by three Doctors, and the local Undertaker told me there was not room enough for one! Talk about luck, I am the unluckiest dog in the world!"
"I am not so sure of that," said the Actor, "here have I been 'resting' for the last twelve months, and it seems just as likely as not that I shall continue the operation until '94. I have tried everything in Town and the Provinces, and there isn't an opening anywhere. My fate is about the worst of the lot."
The Artist.
"Not so bad as mine," grumbled the Artist. "Haven't sold a single picture since the Jubilee year, and can't afford to pay the frame-maker. My studio is full of paintings, and the dealers say that there isn't a single canvas amongst the lot but what would be refused admission to an Exhibition of Sign-boards! Don't know how I should have kept body and soul together if it hadn't been for an opportune loan from one who in happier times was, in my employment as a model. Talk about prospects! Look at mine!"
Bulls and Bears. City Men.
"Well, come, you are better off than I am," said the City Man. "If I hadn't now and again to appear before the Registrar in the Bankruptcy Court, I don't know what I should do with my time! I am stone broke. That's about it—stone broke! Knocked out of the 'House,' and without a scrap of credit: I am done for!"
And it was agreed that none of them had any prospects. Then they separated, or rather, were on the eve of separating.
"By the way—fancy forgetting to do it!" said one of them.