WHERE'S THE CAT?

Cromwell Argus, Volume LXVIII, Issue 3482, 16 August 1937, Page 7

WHERE'S THE CAT?

“Didn’t I tell ye to feed that cat a pound of meat every day until ye had her fat?” demanded an Irish shopkeeper, nodding toward a sickly, emaciated cat that was slinking through the store. “Ye did thot,” replied his assistant, “an’ I’ve just been after feedin’ her a pound of meat this very minute." “Faith, an’ I don’t believe ye. Bring me the scales.” ■ The poor cat w T as lifted Into the scales. They balanced at exactly one pound. “There!” exclaimed the assistant triumphantly. “Didn’t I tell ye she’d had her pound of meat?” “That’s right,” admitted the boss, scratching his head. “That’s yer pound of meat all right. But” his eyes suddenly twinkling—“where the divvil is the cat?” Ample Cover. Sergeant Blowbag was holding forth to an admiring crowd of Tommies in the mess-room. “Once I w r as surrounded by the enemy,” he boasted, “and I had only my rifle to defend myself with. What would you have done in my place?” All eyes turned towards the sergeant’s big feet as a voice sounded from the rear: “Why, sergeant, I should have dropped into one of those boots and fired through the lace-boles.” Author (to theatre manager); “I believe you do it on purpose. When the house is particularly empty you put nn one of my plays!”