At the foot of our MacTavish's mattress, under a spare blanket lifted from that warrior in his sleep, lay a large pink pig. Both were occupied in peaceful and stertorous repose.
"Heads of Angels, by Sir JOSHUA REYNOLDS," breathed Albert Edward in my ear.
PATLANDER.
Old Lady from the Country. "I'VE ASKED FOUR PORTERS, AND THEY ALL TELL ME DIFFERENT."
Porter. "WHAT CAN YOU EXPECT, MISSUS, IF YER ASKS FOUR DIFFERENT PORTERS?"
COMMERCIAL CANDOUR.
"1913 Touring Ford, in splendid condition, fitted with new coils, parafin vaporiser; has been little use."—Irish Times.