BOTCH POTCH

Hawera Star, Volume XLVIII, 10 November 1928, Page 18

BOTCH POTCH

A fellow was sitting in the club, with ! a look of unrelieved gloom on his face. ! After a time a friend approached him, saying, “You look frightfully fed up, Bill. Why not drown your sorrows:'” “It’s a good idea,” said Bill in a desolate voice, “but she’s one of the kind who would float.” In a restaurant where actors foregather, a stage celebrity observed a comrade sitting moodily contemplating a bun and a glass of milk. The sight was so unusual that the newcomer exj claimed involuntarily, “Hello, old boy. Dieting:-'” “No,” responded" the other in a melancholy voice. Resting.” The squire was playing cricket for the village eleven. It was a somewhat breezy day, and the last bowler -with the wind behind his back was almost unplayable. He sent down one 1 ball to the squire which just grazer! the bail and carried it away. The batsman, with the utmost sang-froid, stayed in his crease, and picking up the fallen bail remarked threateningly to the umpire, “Devilish windy today, George.” The- umpire replied drily, “ ies. sir, it is. But I'm not. And you’re out.” “Have you ever been in a. railway accident?” “Yes, 1 once went through a tunnel and kissed the father instead of the daughter.” A lady ran away from her husband and went to live in an hotel. After several days she went back to _ him. She said she couldn’t stand looking at the sign on the hotel door every time she went out; it troubled her eonseieme. The sign was: “Think: have you left anything?” A young artist of doubtful talent was visited by a wealthy merchant. After looking at a number of pictures the business man said: “Young man, do you sell much of jour work?” “Of course I do,” the artist replied untruthfully, thinking that at last he was about to sell a picture.” “Weil,” said the merchant, “if you will come to my olfiee to-morrow I will give you a good job. I have been looking tor a salesman like you tor years.” A party of Americans living in a London ho':el were swopping experiences while touring Britain. Said the long, thin fellow, “We were at Strat-Iford-on-Avon yesterday.” “Oh,” observed the little fat- one, “what’s it celebrated for, anyhow?” The thin one scratched his head. “Wal,” he said, “a guy kent remember every- ( thing these gosh-darned guides tell him but I guess I’m right in saying that Marie Corelli useter live there.” Here is a yachting yarn which, if not exactly new, is somehow never old. A gentleman wivh no pedigree to speak of aspired to become a. member of the exclusive Royal Yacht Squadron. His essavs at membership were always tactfully- turned down. However, the aspirant- in question was not to be entirely defeated, so he put in an appearance at Cowes Roads one day flying a perm a iff which bore the letters “M.0.8.Y.5.” Yachting men were completely baffled by this- symbol, and eventually a member of the R-.Y.S. inquired what the letters signified. “Oh,” said the owner loftily, “they stand for ‘My Own Blooming Yacht Squadron.’ ” The big day was on. The wonderful gigantic bridge connecting two of the country’s biggest cities was being formally opened. _ At the height of the celebration, when hundreds of people had thronged on to the bridge, the centre span—with a crash t.o be heard lor miles—fell into ‘the river, a mass of twisted girders- and human bodies. The frenzied mayor, seeing the enI giner, clashed up to him. “Look w r hat you have done!” he qried. The engineer, without the slightest expression on his face, replied, “You I know I just had a hunch all along that that decimal point was in The wrong place.” Children are nothing if not up to date in these days. There was a sudden I cry from the garden, where baby was playing. “Mother, Gerald’s- crashed !” shouted his older brother. It may be true, as the eminent scientist asserts, that a kiss is nothing more or less than an electric -shock, but we have just kisised' our wife’s maiden aunt, and we guess that our batteries must be about run down not to mention hers. Husband of Authoress: “Will you be much longer writing That novel?” Wife: “I am just at the death scene of the hero.” Husband (politely-): Good! And when he is dead would you mind sewing on this button for me?”