§ 265 Two Conundrums and a Tragedy I do not know why it is that nearly all the stories having to do with frugality should be aimed at the Scot. Your average Scotchman does not particularly wish to hoard his money; he merely desires that when he spends it, he shall obtain a proper return. You know of course the ancient conundrum which was printed years ago in London _Punch_. As I recall it, this conundrum ran as follows: “How, at the conclusion of a railroad journey, can you definitely fix the nationality of an English passenger, an Irish passenger, and a Scotch passenger?” The answer was: “The Englishman hurries to the lunch-stand; the Irishman hastens to the bar; the Scotchman goes back through the train to see if anybody left anything.” Here recently, a friend fired this one at me: “Why,” he asked, “have the Scotch a sense of humor?” “All right,” I asked, “I’ll bite; tell me, Mr. Bones, why have the Scotch a sense of humor?” “Because,” he said, “it’s a gift.” A still later addition to the crop has just been received. It is stated that an Englishman, standing treat to a Scotchman at a pub recommended that his guest try some very fine brandy which the establishment had in stock at three shillings a drink. With glistening eyes the Scotchman agreed. He waited until the bar-maid had poured out the brandy and then with a sudden leap he pounced upon the glass, seizing it in both hands as in a vise. “Why do you do that, old dear?” asked the astonished host. “Because,” said the Scotchman, “when I was a verra young man, back in Edinburgh in the year 1862, I saw one of them spilled.” § 266 In the Very Lap of Comfort An aged couple from the East Side were visiting their married daughter in Brooklyn. One afternoon on a sight-seeing stroll they drifted into a near-by cemetery. Presently, a huge marble mausoleum caught their eye. They halted before it in admiration. “Ain’t that peautiful!” said the old man. “I pet you, Esther, that cost fully dwenty thousand dollars. Who is buried there, I wonder?” His wife, whose eyesight was better than his, spelled out the name carved over the entrance to the tomb. “It says: ‘August Kohn.’” “August Kohn, huh?—so! Then it must be the millionaire silk-goods importer vot’s puried there.” He wagged his beard in tribute. “Vell, them rich peoples certainly do live vell.” § 267 Making It a Sweepstakes This is one of my standbys. Every time I hear it—and I hear it on an average of at least four times a year—I like it better. I hope the reader may feel the same way about it.