"'Betty, Betty, I declare I must give you warning. Why don't you tell me what that knock is at No. 54?'
"'Why, lor, it's only the baker with pies.'
"'Pies, Betty? What can they want with pies at 54? They had pies yesterday!'"
Poole had the happy knack of turning every trifling incident to valuable account. I remember his telling me an anecdote in illustration of this faculty. I believe he never printed it. Being at Brighton one day, he strolled into an hotel to get an early dinner, took his seat at a table, and was discussing his chop and ale, when another guest entered, took his stand by the fire, and began whistling. After a minute or two,—
"Fine day, Sir," said he.
"Very fine," answered Poole.
"Business pretty brisk?"
"I believe so."
"Do anything with Jones on the Parade?"
"Now," said Poole, "it so happened that Jones was the grocer from whom I occasionally bought a quarter of a pound of tea; so I answered,—