“Beautiful,” said the teacher approvingly. “Now, Harry, what are you going to say?” “The liberal soul shall be made fat.” “Willie?” “Whoso giveth to the poor, lendeth to the Lord.” “Bobby?” “Freely thou hast received, freely give.” “Very good, indeed. Tommy, it’s your turn next.” Tommy’s hand came slowly forth from his pocket, bringing a penny. “A fool and his money are soon parted,” said Tommy. § 270 Where Proper Relief Lay Late in life, Messrs. Abrams and Jacobs took up golf. Both were retired cloak and suit merchants of the type made famous in Montague Glass’s immortal stories. On a glorious September afternoon they were going over the links of their country-club. They were playing for a stake of a dollar a hole, and the competition was spirited. Mr. Abrams drove into a bunker. With his iron he made four ineffectual swipes, raising the sand in clouds. Then he stooped down, picked up the half buried ball and tossed it out on the fairway. Mr. Jacobs stiffened with indignation. “Look a’ here!” he whooped. “You couldn’t do that. It’s against the rules.” “I already have done it,” said Mr. Abrams, calmly. “But again I tell you it’s against the rules,” declared Mr. Jacobs. “I have been playing this game longer as you have and I tell you it says in the book where you should not touch the ball with your hands at all. What am I going to do if by such tricks as that you should win the match?” “Sue me,” said Mr. Abrams. § 271 No Repetitions for Hubby A few months ago an English illustrated paper published a joke which struck me as having merit. When I repeated it in company a gentleman who is supposed to know nearly all the jokes in the world told me that in slightly different guise the same wheeze was current on the Pacific Coast twenty years ago. He may or may not have been wrong. In any event, I like the British version. A couple from the country have come up to London for a week’s visit. They have seats in the first gallery for a performance of a society drama. To them the play proves exceedingly tiresome. In one of the intervals the husband, stifling a yawn, turns to his deeply bored wife: “What comes next?” he asks. She consults the program. “It says ’ere, ‘Act four, sime as Act one.’” “Ow!” he exclaims, “let’s ’op it. I couldn’t sit through all that hawful mess again.” § 272 There Was No Hurry about It A brawny negro prize-fighter made application at an athletic club which was putting on a series of bouts, for an opportunity to meet some suitable opponent. He announced that he was a dark cloud, a whirlwind, a tempest, a tornado, a hurricane and a sirocco.