“Buddy,” he said, “I’ve just been layin’ here thinkin’.” “Hell of a time to be thinkin’,” said his pal. “What were you thinkin’ about?” “I was thinkin’ how a fellow’s feelings get changed in this war.” “What do you mean—get changed?” “Why, once upon a time, back home, a fellow with a thirty-eight calibre pistol run me plum’ out of town.” § 164 In Accordance with the Ritual Archie Gunn, the artist, is a Scot who was educated in England and who still has a great love for the national game of the British Isles, to wit: cricket. Will Kirk, the verse-writer, is a product of Wisconsin and until one day when his friend Gunn took him over on Staten Island had never seen a game of cricket. Teams made up of English residents were playing. The spectators, almost exclusively, were their fellow-countrymen. A batsman dealt the ball a powerful wallop. “Well hit, old chap!” cried Gunn. And “Well hit! Well hit!” echoed others in the crowd. An opposing player made a hard run to catch the ball as it descended into his territory. He almost got under it—almost, but not quite. It just eluded his clutching fingers. “Well tried, old chap! Well tried!” called out Gunn. Kirk figured this sort of thing must be in accordance with the proper ritualism of the game. He decided that, to show his approval, he would at the next opportunity speak up, too. Once more the batsman smote the ball. It rose high in the air. A fielder for the rival club ran to catch it. His toe caught in a clod of upturned turf and he tumbled forward on his face, and the ball, dropping, hit him squarely on the top of his head. Kirk’s yell rose high and clear above all lesser sounds. “Well fell, old chap!” he shouted. “Well fell, by gum!” § 165 A Customer Who Wasn’t Wanted Almost invariably, when men fall to discussing examples of business sagacity, someone present is reminded of the illustrative incident of the white tramp and the colored saloon-keeper. The colored man sat behind his bar in a moment when trade was slack. Through the swinging doors entered the ragged Caucasian. “Give me a good five-cent cigar,” he ordered. The proprietor produced a box containing a number of dangerous-looking dark-brown rolls. The patron made a discriminating choice and then in the act of putting the cigar between his lips checked himself. “Say, I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “Believe I’ll take a glass of beer instead.” The negro returned the cigar to its box and drew a glass of beer. The customer drank it, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and started to withdraw. “Yere, hol’ on, w’ite man,” said the negro, “you forgot to pay fur dat beer.” “Why, I give you a cigar for it.” “Yes, but you ain’t paid fur de cigar, neither.” “But you’ve still got the cigar, ain’t you? What’s the matter with you, anyhow?” The colored man scratched his head.