“I beg your pardon, madam,” he said in his best company drawl, “but might a total stranger so far intrude upon you as to ask you a question?” “You might” she said, her sharp accents in strong contrast to his deeper yet softer tones. “Thank you, madam,” he said. “The question, madam, relates to the dog you air carrying. Is that your own dog?” “It is,” she said. “Is that the only dog you’ve got?” “It is.” “Madam,” said Cap’n Joe, “ain’t you mighty nigh out of dog?” § 191 Assigning G. B. S. to His Place When George Bernard Shaw, as a young man, emerged from his native Ireland and moved to England he began writing a column for a London weekly publication. At that time Oscar Wilde was enjoying his vogue as a wit and an epigram-maker. One evening an acquaintance, calling upon Wilde, happened upon a copy of the paper to which Shaw was a contributor and reading therein one of Shaw’s characteristic articles which was signed with the author’s initials, said to his host: “I say, Wilde, who is this chap G. B. S. who’s doing a department for this sheet?” “He’s a young Irishman named Shaw,” said Wilde. “Rather forceful, isn’t he?” “Forceful,” echoed the other, “well, rather! My word, how he does cut and slash! He doesn’t seem to spare any one he knows. I should say he’s in a fair way to make himself a lot of enemies.” “Well,” said Wilde, “as yet he hasn’t become prominent enough to have any enemies. But none of his friends like him.” § 192 A Voice from the Void A group of big leaguers on their spring training trip were marooned by rain one morning so that they could not go to the ball field for practice. They sat under the portico of the Texas hotel where they were quartered and swapped small talk. An admiring ring of villagers surrounded them. A languid, ragged negro drew near, anchoring himself at the outer edge of the audience. He laughed with loud appreciation at every sally from this or that visiting notable. He had the look about him of one seeking a suitable opportunity to solicit the gift of a small sum from some generous white stranger. But hour after hour passed with no proper opening until the forenoon was spent. Suddenly the whistle on the canning factory across the street from the hotel let go with a blast and the hands came trooping out, bearing their lunch pails. “Uh uh, dar she goes,” said the darky, as the siren voice died away. “Hit’s dinner time fur some folks—but jes’ twelve o’clock fur me.” § 193 Taking Nothing from Nothing It was a striking coincidence that the new clerk at the soda-fountain was locally regarded as being a half-wit, and that the individual who approached him also happened to be the possessor of one of those fractional intellects. “What’ll it be?” inquired semi-idiot number one. “A glass of plain soda without flavor.” “Without what flavor?” The customer pondered this for a brief space. “Without chocolate flavor,” he said.