As Grantland Rice tells the story, a certain distinguished English actor, whom we may safely call Jones-Brown, plays a persistent but horrible game of golf. During a recent visit to this country the actor in question occasionally visited the links of a well-known country club in Westchester County, near New York.
After an especially miserable showing of inaptness one morning, he flung down his driver in disgust.
“Caddy,” he said, addressing the silent youth who stood alongside, “that was awful, wasn’t it?”
“Purty bad, sir,” stated the boy.
“I freely confess that I am the worst golfer in the world,” continued the actor.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, sir,” said the caddy soothingly.
“Did you ever see a worse player than I am?”
“No, sir, I never did,” confessed the boy truthfully; “but some of the other boys was tellin’ me yistiddy about a gentleman that must be a worse player than you are. They said his name was Jones-Brown.”
“You say that you want some name engraved on this ring,” said the jeweller to the bashful young man.
“Yes; I want the words, ‘George, to his dearest Alice’ engraved on the inside of the ring.”
“Is the young lady your sister?”
“No; she is the young lady to whom I am engaged.”
“Well, if I were you I would not have ‘George, to his dearest Alice’ engraved on the ring. If Alice changes her mind you can’t use the ring again.”
“What would you suggest?”
“I would suggest the words, ‘George, to his first and only love,’ You see, with that inscription you can use the ring half a dozen times. I have had experience in such matters myself.”
Pat came to the dentist’s with his jaw very much swollen from a tooth he desired to have pulled. But when the suffering son of Erin got into the dentist’s chair and saw the gleaming pair of forceps approaching his face, he positively refused to open his mouth. The dentist quietly told his page boy to prick his patient with a pin, and when Pat opened his mouth to yell the dentist seized the tooth, and out it came. “It didn’t hurt as much as you expected it would, did it?” the dentist asked, smilingly.
“Well, no,” replied Pat, hesitatingly, as if doubting the truthfulness of his admission. “But,” he added, placing his hand on the spot where the little boy pricked him with the pin, “begorra, little did I think the roots would reach down like that.”
Among the passengers on a train on a one-track road in the Middle West was a talkative jewelry drummer. Presently the train stopped to take on water, and the conductor neglected to send back a flagman. An express came along and, before it could be stopped, bumped the rear end of the first train. The drummer was lifted from his seat and pitched head first into the seat ahead. His silk hat was jammed clear down over his ears. He picked himself up and settled back in his seat. No bones had been broken. He drew a long breath, straightened up, and said: “Well, they didn’t get by us, anyway.”