Captain George Walker, of Savannah, used to have a hand on his Georgia plantation who loved ease and fishing. When he wasn’t fishing he was loafing. One night there was a rain almost heavy enough to be called a cloudburst and the next morning all the low places on the plantation were flooded two feet deep. Passing his tenant’s cabin, Captain Walker found him seated in an easy chair at the kitchen door fishing in a small puddle of muddy water that had formed there. “Henry, you old fool,” said Captain Walker, “what are you doing there?” “Boss,” said Henry, “I’s jes’ fishin’.” “Well, don’t you know there are no fish there?” demanded Captain Walker. “Yas, suh,” said Henry; “I knows dat. But this yere place is so handy!” § 176 Doing Something for the Patient Frank McIntyre, the plump comedian, played vaudeville dates one season. One night after his turn he dropped into a short-order restaurant near the theatre for a bite, before going to bed. Sitting next to him was a former circus acrobat, who did a horizontal-bar act on the same bill with McIntyre. The acrobat was sawing away at the sinewy knee-joint of a fried chicken leg. Though the knife was sharp and he was athletic, he made but little headway. He waved his arm toward a bottle of ketchup which stood upon the counter near McIntyre’s elbow. “Say, bo,” he requested, “pass de liniment, will you? De sea gull’s got de rheumatism.” § 177 The Real Point of the Joke Two American performers, filling vaudeville engagements in London, took lodgings together in a house on a side street back of Covent Gardens. Late at night, following the first day of their joint tenancy they left the theatre in company and, having had a bite and a drink at a chophouse set out afoot for the new diggings. One of the pair undertook to show the way. The trouble was, though, that for the life of him he couldn’t recall the name of the street where the house stood nor the number of the house. For nearly an hour they wandered through deserted byways seeking their destination. Finally they happened upon a street which wore a familiar look. Sure enough, half way down the block stood the house where they were quartered. With glad cries the tired pair hurried to it. Here a fresh difficulty arose. They had no latch keys. Coming away that afternoon neither had thought to ask their landlady for a key. However, the second man figured he could pick the lock. He worked at it vainly for another half hour while his companion fidgeted about. Finally in disgust and despair he gave it up as a bad job, and the two of them went to a hotel where they spent the remainder of the night. Now comes the point of the story: The man who could not remember the name of the street, nor the number of the house, was Barton the Memory Wizard. The man who could not master the lock was Houdini, the Handcuff King. § 178 The Mystery of Wednesday