“Of course the Scotch say they speak better English than the English. I remember I once had a short engagement on an Edinburgh paper. When about to leave ‘Auld Reekie’ there was a little _deoch-an-dorus_, and some fifteen of the fellows came to wish me God-speed. They were from some fifteen different parts of Scotland, and after certain formalities in the way of hot toddy my Scotch friends brought up the eternal question of their immaculate English. ‘It may be as you say,’ I interposed, ‘but why do you speak it with fifteen different accents?’ Had them there, ha! ha!” Irish Dramatist (discussing tours, etc.)—“Did I hear you say Stony Stratford? I was once there, and no wonder they called it Stony Stratford, for I was never so bitten with bugs in my life.”[3] Genial Advertising Manager—“I hear that poor old Mac’s dead” (general sorrow and display of handkerchiefs). (Enter poor old Mac—silence falls on the company.) Poor old Mac—“Good evening, Miss S——, I haven’t seen you for a long time.” Miss S.—“Was it very hot where you have come from?” Funny Man—“Why, Jack, you seem to believe in a lot of things nobody else believes in”—(then, as a clincher)—“I suppose you believe in the transmigration of souls!” Solemn Man—“I do—and so do you. You must feel you were an ass when you lent me that half-sovereign six months ago.” Socialistic Journalist (to admiring friends)—“Have you read my articles in the _X Y Gazette_? No? Well, read them, and you will see that I am the second, if not the first, among the teachers of humanity. Nobody, for at least eighteen hundred years, has taught as I have taught.” Waiter, suddenly entering the bar—“Oh, I beg your pardon, but you did not pay for that steak you had in the room.” Socialistic Journalist—“Pay for it! Not likely! It was from the beginning as much my steak as Charlie Moore’s. Now it is more mine than his. Pay? Base is the slave that pays.” Racing Journalist—“Jones is a good writer, but he will never set the Thames on fire.” Impecunious Reporter—“I wish he would, for it’s very cold, and I have to sleep on the Embankment.” The story goes that on one occasion there was some little misunderstanding at the bar; but misunderstandings are of the rarest, and this one has become legendary. The account which reached me ran something after this manner:— Great Sub-Editor (with back to fire)—“_You’re_ not a freemason.” Great Reporter—“I am.” G. S.-E.—“Why, I’ve been making masonic signs to you for the last half-hour.” G. R.—“Do you call me a——?” G. S.-E.—“I do.” G. R.—“Then——” (and they roll together on the floor). Head waiter (rushing in)—“What’s this? What’s this about?” Manageress—“Only two gentlemen making a few masonic signs under the table.” Of course, as a rule, harmony prevails in the “Cheese,” and “chaff” abounds without physical threshing, for the _habitués_ love the ancient hostelry and themselves too much to make the place a bear-garden. To quote again from the _Sportsman_:—