In a Southern town is a lady, socially prominent, who enjoys the reputation of being a modern Mrs. Malaprop. The latest speech attributed to her had to do with the ancient game of Scotia. “I’ve often thought,” she said to a friend, “that I’d like to go in for golf, but somehow I have never gotten ’round to it; and, besides, I don’t understand the first thing about playing it. Why, if I wanted to hit the ball I wouldn’t know which end of the caddy to take hold of.” § 183 One Way to Beat the Game Those who in their youth were addicted, or subsequently have been addicted to the good old American game of Seven-up will appreciate a little tale which Frank I. Cobb, of the New York _World_, told. Cobb, who was born in Kansas and reared in Michigan, went to a town in the former state to call upon an elderly uncle. He arrived about suppertime. His aunt received him and welcomed him, telling him that her husband would probably be along shortly. Time passed and still the old gentleman did not appear. “I wonder,” said Cobb, “whether Uncle Henry has been detained at his shop?” “Oh, no,” said his aunt in a resigned tone. “He’s down at Number Two Engine House, claiming Low.” § 184 Absolutely No Reason for It Harry Beresford, the actor, was born in England but has lived long enough in America practically to have recovered from it. One fall a friend sent him two tickets for one of the World’s Series ball games at the Polo Grounds, and he took with him to the game a newly arrived Englishman, a distant kinsman. The stranger sat patiently enough through seven innings. The riotous proceeding was a puzzle to him but he was too polite to mention it. Then, when the mighty crowd, following the baseball custom, stood up to stretch, he rose, too, and started for the aisle. “Hold on!” said Beresford. “It isn’t over yet.” “I was only going to get a cup of tea, old chap,” explained his guest. “You can’t get tea now,” said Beresford; “the game goes right on.” “You mean to say there is no tea being served?” demanded the Englishman in amazement. “Certainly not!” said Beresford. “Well,” demanded the other, “what, then, is the purpose of the damned game?” § 185 The Withdrawal of the Candidate When Miss Annie Oakley, the famous rifle shot, was traveling through the country giving exhibitions of her skill at theatres, she reached a small town in Texas; and her manager inserted an advertisement in the home paper for a smart colored boy to assist in the performance. Applicants were instructed to apply at the stage door of the local opera house at one P. M. sharp. When the manager arrived he found the passageway congested with little negroes, each eager to testify to his smartness. He made a selection, picking out a spry boy of about twelve. He took his applicant inside and stationed him near the wings.