"I've no use for poetry," said the millionaire.
"A Greek poet, who lived—"
"Greek. A Greek, did you say?" A shrewd look came into his eyes. "Some of the cutest devils I know are Greeks." He pulled down a shirt-cuff and took a diamond-studded pencil from his waistcoat pocket. "How do you spell it? With an H?"
"POULTRY AND EGGS.
Belfast or Neighbourhood.—Locum Tenency or Sunday duty wanted by well-known Rector during holiday."—Irish Paper.
It looks as if he had been mistaken for a Lay-reader.
"Nothing is left of the knave of the church, but the choir still remains."—Scotch Paper.
We are glad they discarded the knave.