* * * * *
Some few days ago a Louisville banker was approached by an impecunious
farmer for a loan. Now at times this banker is deaf for commercial
purposes. The farmer was chronically wanting to borrow, and his security
was getting shaky. I’d like to borrow five thousand, pleaded the farmer.
The banker cupped his hand to his ear and said: Speak a little louder and
cut down the amount.
* * * * *
Thousands of girls are sent out into the world with what is called
finished educations, who cannot even give a proper receipt for money,
to say nothing of drawing a promissory note, a draft or a bill, or
understanding the significance and importance of business contracts.
Such a woman presented a check for payment to the paying teller of her
bank. He passed it back to her with the request that she be kind enough
to indorse it. The lady wrote on the back of the check, I have done
business with this bank for many years, and I believe it to be all right.
Mrs. James B. Brown.
Another society woman in New York presented a check for payment at the
bank, and the teller told her that it was not signed. Oh, do they have to
be signed? she replied. What an awful lot of red tape there is about a
banking business.
I know of a lady whose husband made a deposit for her in a bank and
gave her a check book so that she could pay her bills without annoying
him. One day she received a notice from the bank that her account was
overdrawn. She went to the bank and told the teller that there must be
some mistake about it, because she still had a lot of checks left in her
book. She knew so little about business that she thought she could keep
drawing any amount until the checks were all gone.
Among the more recent stories of feminine banking is one of a young lady
who in a fit of abstraction signed a check, Your loving Susie. A still
later anecdote is this, from one of our exchanges:
A fund was being raised in New York for the benefit of sufferers by a
great disaster, and a certain rich but illiterate woman was approached
upon the subject.
Oh, I shouldn’t mind sending the money, she said, but I do hate to have
my name in all the papers.
But that could be easily arranged, said the gentleman who had opened the
subject.
Why, yes, of course, remarked the woman, I could send an anonymous check.
Why didn’t I think of that before?
* * * * *
Four or five ladies bustled into a private office the other day.
What can I do for you, ladies? asked the banker pleasantly.
Why, began one of the visitors, we are taking up a subscription and
we knew you wouldn’t like it if we didn’t give you an opportunity to
subscribe.
The banker bowed graciously and asked: And the object? Of course it is a
worthy one, or you would not be interested in it.
Yes, sir, replied the spokeswoman, we think it a very worthy object. It
is to build a home for aged and indigent widows.
Excellent! Excellent! I shall take pleasure in making you out a check.
Oh, how lovely of you! exclaimed the spokeswoman when she received the
bit of paper and read the amount—one hundred pounds. Oh, we didn’t
expect to get that much from you. We are ever so much obliged.
So good of him! and similar exclamations were heard as the check was
passed around for the admiration of the party.
But, said the lady who handled the check last, you haven’t signed it.
That is because I do not wish my benefactions known to the world, said
the banker modestly. I wish to give the check anonymously. And he bowed
the ladies out with great dignity.
* * * * *
In a banking office in New Orleans is an aged bookkeeper who began his
connection with the business the day it was established. As the years
went by, the proprietor, who had started with little, but was extremely
close, amassed an enormous fortune. The bookkeeper piled up but a small
amount of savings.
At last the twenty-fifth anniversary of the firm and of the bookkeeper’s
services came along. He remembered it, but thought no one else would. To
his surprise, the proprietor spoke of it at once.
Williams, he said, do you know what day this is?
Our twenty-fifth anniversary, sir.
It is indeed, Williams. And now I have thought to commemorate the event,
and I have put in this envelope for you a small gift to express my
appreciation of your faithful service.
The bookkeeper, his hopes raised high, took the envelope from his
employer and opened it. The token was a photograph of the employer.
Well? demanded the donor, as the other hesitated. What do you want to say
about it?
It’s just like you! murmured the bookkeeper. It’s just like you.
_Disciples of Hippocrates_
Aren’t you pretty young to be a practicing physician? asked the
severe-looking female person sternly.
Well, you see, I only doctor children, said the young medico, nervously.
* * * * *
Doctor, are you sure my husband has pneumonia? I have heard of doctors
treating patients for pneumonia who finally died of typhoid fever.
Well, madam, I don’t make such blunders. If I treat a patient for
pneumonia, he dies of pneumonia.
* * * * *
Patient—Doctor, it hurts me to breathe. In fact, the only trouble now
seems to be with my breath.
Physician—All right. I’ll give you something that will soon stop that.
* * * * *
A young doctor in a country district was called one night by an old
farmer to his first case. The patient was the farmer’s son, who was lying
on the bed in much pain. The young medico threw out his chest and said:
This should cause you no alarm. It is nothing but a corrustified exegesis
antispasmodically emanating from the physical refrigerator, producing a
prolific source of irritability in the pericranial epidermis.
The farmer looked at him and replied, just what I said, but his mother
thought it was the stomachache.
* * * * *
Wife—Now dear, here’s the doctor to see you.
Merchant Prince—Send him away and fetch the undertaker! You know I never
deal with middlemen.
* * * * *
A doctor came up to a patient in an insane asylum, slapped him on the
back and said: Well, old man, you’re all right. You can run along and
write your folks that you’ll be back home in two weeks as good as new.
The patient went off gayly to write his letter. He had it finished and
sealed, but when he was licking the stamp it slipped through his fingers
to the floor lighted on the back of a cockroach that was passing and
stuck. The patient hadn’t seen the cockroach. What he did see was his
escaped postage stamp zigzagging aimlessly across the floor to the
baseboard, wavering up over the baseboard and following a crooked track
up the wall and across the ceiling. In depressed silence he tore up the
letter that he had just written and dropped the pieces on the floor.
Two weeks! Hell! he said. I won’t be out of here in three years.
* * * * *
He had just hung out his shingle. That morning a stranger entered. The
doctor asked to be excused as he hurried to the phone.
Taking down the receiver, he said: Yes, this is Dr. Whoosit. Yes, will be
ready for you at two-ten this afternoon. But please be prompt, for I am
very busy. Two hundred dollars? Yes, that was the estimate I gave you.
Hanging up the receiver, he turned to the stranger and rubbing his hands
asked: Now, sir, what can I do for you?
Nothing, replied the stranger quietly. I only came in to connect up the
telephone.
* * * * *
The following item is taken from a county officer’s health report:
The patient died of blood poison from a broken ankle contracted in an
automobile accident, which was a very strange occurrence, since he was
struck between the lamp post and the radiator.
* * * * *
Herr Doctor, my wife and I are possessed! Can’t you cure us? What sort
of a demon is it possesses you? Peasant: The fighting demon; it forces
us to come to blows, and we are both sorry for it afterward. Doctor
(making three times the sign of the cross): Begone, foul demon of
discord, begone! So that was only the preliminary cure, now I will write
a prescription for you. When the fit comes on again, the one who is not
yet begun to scold and fight is to take the medicine bottle and a spoon
and go out of the room, while the other remains inside. After ten minutes
the first one is to come in again, count twenty-seven drops into the
spoon, and give them to the other; then the latter is to take the spoon
and count twenty-seven drops and give them to the first one, after which
you shake hands together. Not a word to be spoken the whole time. Three
months later the peasant came again with his wife: Herr Doctor, we have
come to make you a present of this ham for having cured us so thoroughly!
This is a true story, and occurred in Holstein.
_Legal Luminaries_
Yours is certainly an unusual case, said the lawyer, and it will be
necessary to consult a number of books.
So? queried the client.
Yes, answered the legal light, and we will begin with your pocketbook.
* * * * *
He had finished his speech at a dinner party, and on seating himself a
lawyer rose, shoved his hands deep into his trousers pockets, as was his
habit, and laughingly inquired of those present:
Doesn’t it strike this company as a little unusual that a professional
humorist should be funny!
When the laughter that greeted this sally had subsided, Mark Twain
drawled out—Doesn’t it strike this company as a little unusual that a
lawyer should have his hands in his own pockets?
* * * * *
As a prisoner was brought before the judge for sentence the clerk
happened to be absent. The judge asked the officer in charge of the
prisoner what the offence was with which he was charged.
Bigotry, your honor. He’s been married to three women.
Why, officer, that’s not bigotry, said the judge, that’s trigonometry.
* * * * *
There was an old man who was charged with illicit distilling and was
brought up before the court. The Judge, who was a witty fellow, asked
the prisoner what was his Christian name. The prisoner replied, Joshua,
and the Judge answered, Are you the man that made the sun shine? and
the prisoner replied, No, sir, your honor; I’m the one that made the
moonshine.
* * * * *
A jury recently met to inquire into a case of suicide. After sitting
through the evidence the twelve men retired, and, after deliberating,
returned with the following verdict—
The jury are all of one mind—temporarily insane!
* * * * *
In a lawsuit in Pennsylvania not long ago the question was put to a miner
on the witness stand.
Were you ever hurt in the mines?
Indade I was, responded the man, I was half kilt once.
Now tell the court whether you were injured at any other time, continued
the cross-examiner.
Yes. I was half kilt in another accident shortly after that.
Your Honor, smilingly interjected counsel for the other side, I object to
this man’s testimony.
Upon what ground? asked the judge.
On the ground that, having been half killed twice, he is a dead man and
therefore incompetent as a witness.
* * * * *
In a suit recently tried in a Virginia town a young lawyer of limited
experience was addressing the jury on a point of law, when good-naturedly
he turned to opposing counsel, a man of much more experience than
himself, and asked—
That’s right, I believe, Colonel Hopkins?