OLD TURK.  “WELL, IF YOU MUST. BUT I WASH MY HANDS OF THE WHOLE BUSINESS—­
UNLESS, OF COURSE, YOU WIN.”]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Golfer.  “WHAT’S THE MATTER, SANDY?  AREN’T YOU GOING TO PLAY THIS AFTERNOON?”

Sandy.  “MAN, HAVE YOU NOT HEARD?  I’VE LOST MA BALL.”]

* * * * *

ELIZABETH GOES TO THE SALES.

“Are you goin’ to the Summer Sales this year, ’m?” inquired Elizabeth, suddenly projecting herself on the horizon of my thoughts.

I laid down my pen at once.  It is not possible to continue writing if Elizabeth desires to make conversation at the same time.

“Certainly I shall, if I hear of a sale of cheap crockery,” I replied pointedly; “ours badly needs replenishing.”

The barbed arrow did not find its mark.  It may require a surgical operation to get a joke into a Scotsman, but only the medium of some high explosive could properly convey a hint to Elizabeth.

“’Oo wants to go to sales to buy things like pots?” asked Elizabeth scornfully.

“People who are always getting their pots broken,” I replied in italics.

“Well, everyone to their tastes,” she commented casually.  I began to wonder if even trinitrotoluol could be ineffective at times.  “Wot I mean by sales is buyin’ clothes,” she continued; “bargins, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” I answered; “I’ve seen them—­in the advertisements.  But I never secure any.”

“Why don’t you, then?”

“Because of all the other people, Elizabeth.  Those who get the bargains seem to have a more dominant nature than mine.  They have more grit, determination—­”

“Sharper elbows is wot you mean,” put in Elizabeth.  “It’s chiefly a matter of ’oo pushes ‘ardest.  My!  I love a sale if only for the sake o’ the scrimmage.  A friend o’ mine ’oo’s been separated from ’er ’usband becos they was always fightin’ told me she never misses goin’ to a sale so that she’ll be in practice in case ’er and ’er old man make it up again.”

“I’m not surprised that I never get any bargains,” I commented, “although I often long to.  Look at the advertisement in this newspaper, for instance.  Here’s a silk jumper which is absurdly cheap.  It’s a lovely Rose du Barri tricot and costs only—­”

“’Oo’s rose doo barry trick-o when ’e’s at ’ome?” inquired Elizabeth.

I translated hurriedly.  “I mean it’s a pink knitted one.  Exactly what I want.  But what is the use of my even hoping to secure it?”

“I’ll get it for you,” announced Elizabeth.

“You!  But how?”

“I’ll go an’ wait an hour or two afore the doors open, an’ when they do I don’t ’arf know ’ow to fight my way to the counters.  Let me go, m’m.  I’d reelly like the outin’.”

I hesitated, but only for a moment.  What could be simpler than sending an emissary to use her elbows on my behalf?  There was nothing unfair in doing that, especially if I undertook the washing-up in her absence.