The joke's on you

ALEXANDER CLARK

Good stories, or yarns, as they used to be called, are rare; and new ones are rarer. In fact, there is no such thing as a new story, the ones we hear every day of our lives being merely the same old ones in modern clothes with their beards stream-lined, and oiled to silence the creaks. Try telling the one you just split a tonsil at an hour ago to some octogenarian friend; ten to one he had it from his grandfather, who always reminded his hearers that the first time Daniel Boone heard it he beat the bejabers out of an Indian.

But, if they are old and sound new to us, what is the difference?

The powers of revival in good stories are potent, and it is you who are older than you think, not the stories.

We shall start the ball rolling by telling (we hope not reminding) you of the city gent vacationing at an inn. We pick him up shortly after his arrival, asking the innkeeper where the post-office is.

"You walk down the road to that white fence, and you'll see it straight across the field. But," added the inn-keeper warningly, "don't walk across it, because there's a terrible, vicious bull in there. Walk around the field; it'll take a while longer, but it's got to be done." So the visitor thanked him, shortly reached the white fence—he could see the post-office straight ahead in the distance—and started walking around. It was pretty hot and he stood it awhile, but the lure of that old straightline-being-the-shortest got him, and he ducked under the fence, looked for the bull, saw no sign of it, and started walking across.

He had about reached the center of the field when he beheld a sight that froze his marrow, to wit: the postman on his bicycle being chased by the bull, and headed his way. They were going at a tremendous clip, and both meaning it, and in a flash our hero got the idea and started off too. There they were, all three of them running like fiends, each gaining on the other, and when the welcome fence was reached the visitor literally hurled himself through it just in time to see the postman's bike hit, and catapult its rider over safely. There the postman lay sprawled. The other rushed over to help him up.

"My God, that was close," the city gent cried as he gave the postman a hand. "He darn near had you then."

"Yep," said the postman, staggering to his feet and dusting himself off, "he darn near has me every day."

Then, as we pass on, there is the American salesman who had to make an exhaustive tour of Russia for his firm—a tour which was to last many months and turned out to be by far the coldest trip he had ever taken in his life. It was so cold, in fact, that he bought himself a great fur coat which set him back two hundred dollars, a sum which he felt should be reimbursed him by the company, and which he forthwith entered into his expense account.

On his return, his boss got right to work on this sheet, and all went well till his eye caught the item: Fur coat —$200.00.

"What's this?" he queried.

And the battle was on in full tilt. In vain did the salesman argue that it was bought strictly in the line of duty; in vain did he say that the trip would have been impossible but for the coat. The upshot was that he had to pay for it himself.

A couple of years later he was compelled to take another trip through the outlying districts of Russia, which was longer and colder than the last one, if that were possible; but it did come to an end and he eventually found himself again seated with his boss, going over the expense account. This time everything was checked up and found satisfactory, and as the employer was signing the paper he gave a slightly malicious chuckle, remarking: "I notice you haven't got any fur coat charged up this time."

"No," answered the salesman, after the signature had been incontestably affixed,

"but it's there just the same."

There was also an English film actor who had been living at the Ambassador hotel in Hollywood and was returning to London. During his six months at the hotel he had become quite friendly with the assistant manager, who used to regale him every time they met with puns, conundrums, riddles, etc. As he was departing, this worthy preceded his farewells with a riddle he had just heard, an old one to be sure, but maybe his friend hadn't heard it, and here it was:

"Brothers and sisters I have none,

But that man's father is my father's son."

The Briton thought awhile, repeated it, but it was no use.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"It's my son," was the reply.

Both had a good laugh, good-byes were exchanged, and the Englishman was off.

Back in London, he was seated among his friends the first night of his return, telling them ail about his Hollywood adventures. Suddenly he said, "Here is a riddle I heard just before I left. Rather good, I think. See if you can guess it," and he repeated the little verse.

Well, they puzzled over it quite awhile, but seeing that he was bursting to give the answer, they threw in the sponge.

"You give up?" he asked gleefully.

"Yes, we give up," answered one. "Who is it?"

Proudly came the answer:

"The son of the assistant manager of the Ambassador hotel in Hollywood!"

Raymond Hitchcock once made the remark, in an after-dinner speech, that nothing so disconcerted an actor as "the sudden sound of silence." This recalls the old lighthouse keeper who had been at his post for thirty-one years. All that long time he had been accustomed to a gun going off, right under his nose, you might say, every six minutes, day and night, which was this lighthouse's way of warning ships. Of course he paid no attention to it at all; till one midnight, in his thirty-first year of attendance, the gun missed for the first time.

The old man awoke with a start.

"What was that?" he called out.

We warn you, the following story is not new. But we have heard it revived three times in one short lifetime, so it must be good.

A well-known and popular midget died, and his widow was receiving the mourners in the parlor below. All day long friends poured in and out, going up to take a look and coming down to say the usual consoling things to the widow. Somewhere around the middle of the afternoon, the widow asked one of the guests who had just been upstairs if he had happened to shut the door after him up there. "No, I didn't," answered the mourner. "Why do you ask?"

The widow replied, "Then you'd better go and shut it.

The cat's had him downstairs three times this morning."