THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LVIII, Issue 273, 18 November 1927, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.)

Dear M.A.T., —I always take a great interest in your column in the "Star" and your paragraph about the riddles appealed to me.* You ask for the

THE RIDDLE.

riddle about the brick,

Maybe the one you want is the one my headmaster used to ask us at school. "If a brick weighs 41b plus half its own weight, what is the weight of the brick V'—A. Brick.

Some of these days a member of an Auckland local body will burst out laughing at a meeting and then the police will bo called in to suppress unseemly A mirth. Star chambers and POLITICAL LEVER, the secret doings of the Camorra would appear to havo been mirthful in comparison to the-dread solemnity of - our intellectual leaders. This part of a letter addressed to the Education Board ought to be framed as a mirth provoker. "And I might tell you that being N.C.O. of the 15th North Auckland Company when I write to the Premier I get things done." Now we know from whom Major Coates, M.C., obtains his orders and his reputation as "the man who gets things done." The corporal of the lath N.A.C. has obviously worked sub rosa up to this, making Major Coates spring to attention without troubling the public. As the chairman of the board solemnly said, "I do not like the threat in this letter." The corporal might dismiss the board at any moment now! The omnipotent military personage perhaps lowered his dignity a little by writing his threat to the Education Board himself. He should delegate such duties to his staff of private secretaries. It would have frightened the board just as much.

Consternation was created at a dance at Newry when the first prize for the neatest pair of ankles was awarded to the local constable, who had masHIS ANKLES, queraded as a girl.— Dublin cablegram.

Swate colleen of Ncwry, begorra, the Jury Who sat on the ankle committee Awarded the p&lm to your feet without qualm. Few polaeemln lolke you, more's the pity! For ages and ages in comical pages We've laughed at the copman's big feet. Now ye'Te won wld your ankles, bedad, how It rankles No longer to write "Plates o* meat"!

Och, Sergeant Malone, me Jool and me own. It's raafe tolme, so powdher your nose. Come, Sullivan, there, have ye switchbacked your hair? O'Grool ye're not wearln* your rose. Are ye manicured well, Polacemahn O'Dell? Bejabers your ankles is thick, Bedad and begorra, ye'll eorra tomorra. And Bernard will give ye the hick.

Come, show your appintmenints, yer powdhers and ointmints. Are yez wearln* silk stockings, me mln? Yer vanity bags and all your glad rags, If ye have, are ye ready? Fall In! Boight turn, thin, me beauties, be off to your duties, Och, Murphy, Just straighten your curls. Me beauteous high-heelers, me feminine peelers, Me cuddlesome constable gurls!

Our astute magistracy is always discovering something. Maybe it was an S.M. who first shouted "Eureka!'* Perhaps one found the philosopher's stone BORN SLEUTHS, with "Bill Stumps" graved deep upon it. It was indeed a magistrate, who, about to pull a sock over his foot one Monday morning, made the immortal discovery, "My word, it's got toes on it!" A Chris tchurch magistrate has said, "I would sooner take a woman's identification of a person than that of any three men, for women's powers of observation are very much better than men's." Women, indeed, remain so primitive ami keen that the New Zealand Police Department only employs men detectives. Yesterday a man and his wife walked down Queen Street. The wife was preoccupied. The man said to her, "Did you see that handsome woman who just passed?" And the preoccupied wife replied, "What? The tall, fair woman with the permanent wave and the powdered nose, wearing a spring tailor-made biege costume with light kid shoes, a small, bright red, plain hat, biege silk stockings, white blouse, a reddish kind of tie, carrying an underarm Morocco bag. No! I didn't notice her. Why ?"

There are polls of some sort nearly every day in New Zealand. He who lias not been a scrutineer or a returning officer or a master of ceremonies in a polling booth is as scarce as

THE LOAN.

kauri trees. M.A.T. was a poll clerk one day and read two novels lying on a school bench. At six in the evening he polled a Pole, the only man he saw all day, caught a train by standing on the platform burning a match to make it stop and collected 4 guinea next day. Marvellous how an official job transforms the citizen. Here are serried phalanxes of poll clerks with fiercely-waxed moustaches all running determined fingers over rolls. It is a solemn moment. Perhaps the man with tl»e American spectacles may disfranchise the trembling voter. He of the excellent artificial denture may discover a flaw. Here is a master of ceremonies who guides the voter the three yards from the door to the table. He is a large, determined man with a beard. He must earn his guinea, and so he smiles, and with .a hand on the shoulder of the agitated 3IA.T. he pushes him gently to' his doom. The serried ranks of clerks (who often poll a person every sixty minutes), having let him off with a caution, the voter is wafted by Beaver to one of six boxes, there to commune with a blue pencil. Returning with the document to the table, tlie . master of ceremonies guides him gently to the ballot box and would like to hold his hand while he drops the missive in. The loan is carried!

Dear M.A.T., —Your par about Manawatu business men complaining that women gossip over the telephone on party lines and keep business men waiting THE KNIFE. brings to mind that there is a remedy for that trouble, and, moreover, it has been successfully tried out in the Manawatu district. It was young Mac Who left the parental roof down that way to seek his fortune in a city. When back on a holiday Dad complained that he could rarely get anyone when he tried to ring up Feilding, as his neighbours on the party line were loquacious. "That's easilv fixed," said young Mac. "Just do this, Dad! Get the blade of your pocket knife, open the little door on the telephone box (it was in the days before the automatic) and lay the blade across those two little terminal points that are close together. a few days later Dad wanted the * eliding railway station in a hurry to order a truck for fchcep, but two ladies held the wire and were animatedly discussing a variety of subjects. Dad smiled diabolically, put the blade of his knife on the two wire terminals, and the result was a perfect short circuit. experiment was tried at a moment when one lady was telling her friend a recipe for gooseberry jam. "You put in half a pound— Then Dad applied the knife blade. "Half a pound of what?" was the anKious answer. ifteres something wrong with this wretched telephone. Just tap it at your end, dear. I was just going to say, put in half a pound ot " On^ 0 more Dad put the knife blade T^ en ? ot \ a » quick ring to the S.M. "i-w ered , the Bhee P truck - Dad kept the secret for a long time, and if ever he wanted to use the telephone the knife blade was handy to silence garrulous neighbours. It was ? £ told me the story. For the benefit ° f long-suffering party-wire users where old manual telephone is in use I pass an XSIS 5 v medy ~°, n with th ® greatest of pleasure.—Yours, Glen Oroua.