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As soon as we were introduced, she says: "Jones, Jones, surely you are a
descendant of the famous family of Joneses, who had their origin in the
stone age and lived in a cave on the Palisades, about a mile from
Hoboken?"
"I can't remember," says I, "it's so long ago and I have a poor memory."
"Yes, but let us come nearer to the present generation," says she. "You
surely are a relative of the Joneses, the Milwaukee millionaires of the
same name."
"Yes," I says, "a distant relative."
"How distant?" she says.
"As distant as they can keep me," says I.
"Have you any poor relatives?" says she.
"None that know me," says I.
That got her mad. She says:
"If I were your wife, I would put poison in your coffee."
"And if I was your husband," says I, "I'd drink it."
The other day I met Charlie de Hopen Dagen, the Scotchman, who had just
enlisted for service in the Philippines.
"Hello, old man!" says he, "come and have a drink."