“Well,” said the American, “you astonish me. We rather thought there were a few interesting sights over here. Did you, by any chance, see Niagara Falls?” “Oh, yes. Spent half a day there.” “Well, isn’t Niagara Falls worth looking at?” “From the Canadian side—yes!” § 236 Between the Cloves and the Hiccough Before prohibition the bar in the Lambs’ Club—now given over to soft drinks, confectionery and vain regrets—was a famous place. I think more quick humor originated there than on any other spot of similar size on this hemisphere. I remember one night when a distinguished comedian in a groggy condition was clinging to the rail. Only a few days before, he had announced that he was off the stuff forever. A fellow-actor entered. “Why, Jack,” he said, “I thought you’d taken the pledge and now here you are with a bun on. How did you get it?” The inebriated one raised his head, revealing a happy, dreamy smile. “Drink by drink,” he murmured softly. “Drink by drink.” But, to my way of thinking, the honors for repartee at the Lambs’ bar should go to Hap Ward, of the old team of Ward and Vokes. Hap, one day, was acting as host to a group of thirsty Lambs. A newcomer joined the party, bringing with him as a guest a gentleman of a serious aspect. When introductions had been completed, Hap addressed the stranger. “What will you have, sir?” The visitor drew himself up. “I have never indulged in the habit of imbibing strong drink in my life,” he said. “My friend,” said Ward, “I can teach you in three easy lessons.” § 237 War Upon the Reptiles Messrs. Cohen and Shapinsky retired from the white-goods business to devote themselves to lives of leisure. They took up golf. Mr. Shapinsky sliced his drive and the ball, flying off at a tangent, descended in a bunker. Over the parapet of the bunker there came to the ears of the waiting Mr. Cohen muffled sounds as Mr. Shapinsky with his niblick dug into the sand. Finally he emerged. “Vell,” he said, “not so bad, huh? It only took me three strokes to get out of that pit.” “Vat do you mean three strokes?” demanded Mr. Cohen. “Myself I stood here und counted und I distinctly heard you hit the ground mit your iron nine times.” “Oh,” said Mr. Shapinsky, “I vas killing a snake.” § 238 One of Those Nature-Faking Yarns A gentleman of social habits came home one evening to be confronted by a wife bristling with indignation. No sooner had he opened the front door of the apartment than she fired a blast at him. “Why, my dear,” he said, “what’s the matter?” “Matter enough,” she answered. “I thought you told me that you were going down to Belmont track yesterday afternoon with a party of men!” “That’s right,” he said, “what of it?”