Authority will be long in dying, for too many people cling to it as a prop. Most people like to have their minds made up for them; it is so easy to obey orders, and so difficult to live your own life carrying your own burden and finding your own path. To live your own life . . . that is the ideal. To discover yourself bravely, to realise yourself fully, to follow truth even if the crowd stone you. That is living . . . but it is dangerous living, for that way lies crucifixion. No one in authority has ever been crucified; every martyr dies because he challenges authority. . . Christ, Thomas More, Jim Connolly. * * * * * Duncan and McTaggart the minister were in to-night, and we got on to the subject of wit and humour. Having a psycho-analysis complex I mentioned the theory that we laugh so as to give release to our repressions. The others shook their heads, and I decided to test my theory on them. I told them the story of the golfer who was driving off about a foot in front of the teeing marks. The club secretary happened to come along. "Here, my man!" cried the indignant secretary, "you're disqualified!" "What for?" demanded the player. "You're driving off in front of the teeing mark." The player looked at him pityingly. "Away, you bletherin' idiot!" he said tensely, "I'm playing my third!" "Now," I said to the others, "I'm going to tell you one by one what your golf is like. You, McTaggart, are a scratch man or a plus man. Is that so?" "Plus one," he said in surprise. "How did you guess?" "I didn't guess," I said with great superiority. "I found out by pure science. You didn't laugh at my joke; you merely smiled. That shows that bad golf doesn't touch any complex inside you. The man who takes three strokes to make one foot of ground means nothing to you because, as I say, there's nothing in yourself it touches." "Wonderful!" cried the minister. "It's quite simple," I crowed, "and now for Mac! You, Mac, are a rotten player; you take sixteen to a hole." "Only ten," protested Mac hastily. "How the devil did you know? I've never played with you." "Deduction, my boy. You roared at my joke, because it touched your bad golf complex. In fact you were really laughing at yourself and your own awful golf." "What about me?" put in Duncan. Now there was something in Duncan's eye that should have warned me of danger, but I was so proud of my success that I plunged confidently. "Oh, you don't play golf," I said airily. "Wrong!" he cried, "I do! And I'm worse than Mac too!" I was astounded. "Impossible!" I cried. "You never laughed at my story at all; that is it touched nothing whatsoever inside you." Duncan shook his head. "You're completely wrong this time." "Well, why _didn't_ you laugh?" I asked. He grinned. "I dunno. Possibly it is because I first heard that joke in my cradle." * * * * *