Humour.

Poverty Bay Standard, Volume X, Issue 1193, 4 November 1882, Page 4 (Supplement)

Humour.

AT THE RACES. Mrs. Breezy passed into the breakfast room and took her place at the coffee end of the table, smiling as though the weather was delightfully cool instead of like the tropics. She wore a very becoming morning wrapper decked out with bows of delicate blue, and Mr. Breezy was about to compliment her on her appearance when she opened up the morning campaign herself with: “ I see they are having races at Coney Island, Mr. Breezy.” “Yes, dear,” said Mr. Breezy, suddenly forgetting the compliments he had prepared. “ They say horse-racing is very exciting,” continued Mrs. Breezy, “ of course you have been to lots of them.” “ Well, no dear, not exactly lots,” said Mr. Breezy. “ I’ve been to three or four a season perhaps, but you know my duties at the office will not allow me to ” “ Oh, of course,” said Mrs. Breezy, “ with your large and extravagant family to support you could not think of throwing away your time looking at horse races. I suppose, now, you haven’t been near the races this summer.” “Well, yes I did go down to Sheepshead Bay one day,” said Mr. Breezy. “ Will you have a chop, dear ? ” “ Never mind the chops at present, Mr. Breezy. You say you did go to the races last week,” said Mrs. Breezy. “Of course you did not go alone.” “ Not exactly, dear. I had a few friends with mo,” said Mr. Breezy. “ Did you say you would take potatoes with your chop.” “ Mr. Breezy, drop that chop and listen to me,” said Mrs. Breezy, as the sunshine was succeeded by an ominous cloud on her features. “You say you had a few friends with you. Are you sure it was a few, Mr. Breezy ? ” “ Quite, dear.” “ Yes, it was a few, Mr. Breezy. A very, very few. Listen to this: * The young lady left her sunshade under the seat of your buggy the last time you were down to Sheepshead. She will find it in the stable office. The rig will be ready for you to-morrow at 12.30, as you ordered ’ ” —but just here Mr. Breezy found he was late for the office, and bolted. — Brooklyn Eagle. A TECHNICAL CONVERSATION. “Is the sporting editor in?” asked a brisk little gentleman, bursting into the managing editor’s room and looking curiously about in all the corners, as though he expected to find the object of his quest tucked away in the waste basket or behind an odd volume. “ Not at present,” said the managing editor, looking up from an article on the “ Power of Mind over Matter.” “Anything important?” “Yes, very,” said the brisk little gentleman. “ Must see your sporting editor to-day, sure. Tremendous odds at stake.” “ Perhaps I might help you out,” said the managing editor. “A bet on the value of a poker hand, or anything of that sort.” “ No, nothing like that,” said the little gentleman. “ I’m fly enough on poker. Had one of the most expensive educations in the game I could catch on to. What I wish to know is whether it would be safe to bet on a horse at Sheepshead Bay ? You see, he was scratched several times last year, and he didn’t get a place until the end of the season, when he went under the string fully two lengths behind the winner.” “ Ye-as,” said the managing editor, gazing knowingly toward his visitor, and tapping his desk deliberately with his pen. “ Yes, I see. You are quite correct in hesitating about betting on the horse. If, as you say, he was scratched several times last year, he may be apt to go lame or have the pink eye. You arc quite sure he only received a few scratches. Nothing more serious ?” “ No-o,” said the little gentleman, looking slightly puzzled, and evidently in doubt as to the exact meaning of the editor’s words, “No—that is, I think not. In one race, I had my doubts whether he was pulled or not.” “Oh, indeed,” said the managing editor, with apparently increasing interest. “ Yes. You see it was a dash of a mile and a half for all ages,” said the little gentleman, warming up to his subject. “He started out well, but soon began to trail. At the threequarter pole he was several lengths behind, and plunging badly, but on the quarter stretch he gathered, and poked his nose ahead of three of the field, but there ho just broke up and passed the string among the field.”

“ Very singular,” said the managing editor, looking as wise as the typical owl, but reserving any further opinion. “ Yes, I got all cut up on that race,” the little gentleman, tipping his straw hat back, and wiping his forehead. “ You see the confounded beast made play for the lead just before he went into the air, and just there I ventured a little go on the result.” “Ah, there was the mistake,” said the editor, pushing back his chair and gazing abstractedly at a long line of patent office reports. “You should never do that. If, as you say, the horse went over the line on the first quarter and poked his nose outside of the field, of course it was a foul, and the other side should not have been allowed to score a run—.” “ Sir,” said the little gentleman. “ On the other hand,” said the editor, still keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the patent office reports, “ if he went into the air and allowed the other horses to outpoint him, of course it was on account of the bad bowling, and they should havte let go the jib shqpt before they rounded the stake boat.” But the little gentleman suddenly had an engagement and vanished. Brooklyn Eagle “ But you said that a man couldn’t keep a daughter and a dog, with safety to the dog,” hinted the reporter. “ I say it,” affirmed Mr. Dammit solemnly. “ think of the dye that dog swallows! Hero you! down Pink! Lie down— It’s no use!” sighed the old gentleman. “ Some fellow has just come home with her, but he won’t come in here.” There was a smothered squeal at the outside door, a quick bark, and a long drawn groan. Then a glorious vision swept into the parlour. “ Is this all?” she asked in a disappointed tone, glancing at the trophies. “ Didn’t Claude come ?” “ He may be around under the furniture, darling, or Pinkie may have swallowed him. Are you sure he hasn’t got mixed in the shuffle?” and Mr. Dammit turned the pieces over, and regarded his daughter with loving anxiety. “ There’ll be fourteen or fifteen dozen new ones here to-morrow night, papa,” murmured the beautiful girl, rumpling his hair. “Ah!” ejaculated the old gentleman, rubbing his hands. “ I may get a new summer suit, after all.” And the reporter left the good old man and his radiant daughter, and went away reflecting on the value a loving and popular daughter could be to a kind and indulgent father, if the volume of mashers should always be equal to the demands of the dog. Two friends, after dinner, over their cigars, discourse of life : “ Growing old is a bore, old fellow; one’s powers must fall off, you know.” “ Not a bit; lookat Tompkins,now.”“ Well?” “Why, at college he was awfully [stupid but he’s past fifty, and still he grows stupider every day.”— Le. Figaro. A literary reviewer says: “ Edward L. Anderson has written a book ‘On Horseback.’ ” Some authors are very eccentric. If the horse was trotting at the time, his manuscript must have looked like the inscriptions on the Egyptian obelisk.— Nom-isUncn Herald. They were talking about beauty, the other evening, when Miss Smith remarked, “Well, talk as you will, hctaiely people are almost always unusually bright.” Miss Brown (sotto voce) —“ The egotist.”— Boston Transcript.

291.