It is related of the late William Travers of New York City, who was used
at times to make merry of his own incurable and distressing infirmity,
that he was on one occasion asked by a woman in a street car, "Would he
be so good as to tell her whether it was nine o'clock yet?" Pulling his
timepiece out of his pocket and looking at it a moment, he began,
"N--n--no, M--m--madam, it isn't n--n--nine oc--oc--o'clock yet,
b--b--but it will be by--by--by the time I can g--g--get it out."
On another occasion he was asked some question by an entire stranger on
the street, who stammered quite as painfully as he himself did, and when
he stuttered out a laborious answer, the man thinking Travers was
mocking him, grew angry and exclaimed:
"How d--dare y--y--you m--make sport of m--m--m--my inf--infirmity?"
And Travers replied, "I wasn't m--m--making f--f--fun of your
in--inf--infirmity. I stut--tut--tut--tutter myself. W--w--why don't you
go to Doctor B--B--Brown? He--cu--cuc--cured me!"
* * * * *
Two men once went squirrel shooting. One of them was a notorious
stammerer. He had no load in his gun when he saw a squirrel running up
a tree, and wishing to call the attention of his companion to it he
began:
"J--J--James! I see a--a--a--a sq--sq--sq--Oh, by George he's gone into
his hole!"