The Irishman sat up with a jerk and looked about him. On the walls between the windows were handsome paintings of the Apostles. “Ain’t that Saint Luke over yonder?” he demanded. “It is,” said the sexton. “And ’tis Saint Mark just beyant him, if I’m not mistook?” “Yes.” “And still farther along Saint Timothy?” “Yes.” “Young man,” demanded the Irishman, “since whin did all thim turn Protestant?” § 298 In One of His Tamer Moments Fred Kelly, the writer, was standing on a street corner in Cleveland waiting for a car. A small man, densely grown up in whiskers and with a mild manner and a diffident way of speaking, sidled up to him. “Excuse me,” he said, “are you acquainted with this town?” “More or less,” said Kelly. “Well,” said the stranger, “maybe you can tell me, then, where the street fair is going on.” It so chanced that Kelly knew the location where a carnival company was holding forth for the week, and he gave the directions for reaching the spot. Then, as the little meek-looking man started off, Kelly was moved to put a question on his own account: “Are you running one of the concessions over there?” he asked. “No,” said the little fellow, “but I’m working in one of them.” “What do you do?” “I work in a side-show that they’ve got over there. I’m the wild man.” § 299 That Thick Hotel Crockery A Northern man was stopping at a small hotel in Alabama. One night after he had retired there came a knocking at his door. “Who is it?” he asked, sitting up in bed. “Hit’s me, boss,” came the somewhat cryptic answer. “Who’s ‘me’?” “One of de bell-boys.” “What do you want at this time of night?” “Got a telegram fur you, boss.” “Oh, that’s it? Well, it’s not very important, I guess. I’ll read it when I get up in the morning. Just shove it under the door.” There was a pause. Then, in a voice made sharp by the fear of losing a tip, the darky spoke: “I can’t—hit’s on a plate!” § 300 A Reduction for Cash Any Scot will tell you that, while as a race the Scotch are thrifty, it is in Aberdeen that thrift becomes an exact science. And it was in Aberdeen, so the story runs, that an especially frugal citizen entered an apothecary’s shop or, as we would say in America, a drug store. He told the proprietor that he wished to purchase three-pence worth of morphine. The chemist pondered over a request so unusual. Customarily he sold the drug only on a physician’s prescription; but this customer was known to him as reputable and responsible. Nevertheless, he must make sure the purpose was proper. “Thr-pence worth of morphine, eh?” he said. “What would ye be wantin’ it for?” The native thought a moment. “Tuppence,” he said. § 301 Extending Down to the Very Bottom