One night I came home late and knocked at the door.
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My wife shoved her head out of the window, and says:
"Is that you, Billy, dear?"
My name's not Billy. I got divorced.
Talking of graveyards, I took a trip to Philly last week.
Say, I never had such fun since I sold my automobile.
The circus began at Hoboken and continued all the way down.
When I got to the station I noticed an Irishman sitting out of harm's
way, holding his jaw.
"What's the matter, old man?" says I; "toothache?"
"Yes, bedad," says he, "but I'm going to get rid of it."
He got a strong piece of twine, tied one end to the offending molar, and
the other to the rail of the last car of the Washington express.
Soon the train started.
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The twine held and so did the tooth.
You never saw any one run to beat that fool Irishman. He had Duffy
beaten to death.
Finally after he had run a two-mile straight-away, the cord snapped, but
the tooth stayed in. Pat came back.
"Be jabbers," says he, "the dum thing fooled me that time, but I'll get
even. I'll go to a dentist."