The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, October 9, 1904, Page 7

THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. RSN ¥ —r s o SO BEFORE M AKING JOKES - ONE WOULD GLANCE N BEING [NTRODUCED B, BEHIND AND NOTE WHETHER ONE'S COMPANION WAS TICKETED "IMPERIALIST" OR "PRO~BOER! Copyright, J90L by Centrsl News and Press Bxchange. HARMED. Very hot weather we’ve been having lately— I mean cold. Let me see. I did not quite catch your name j Thank you so much. Yes, very nice man eed. No, I'm only passing through. And a si- lence falls, neither of us being able to think what to say next. What has happened is this: The editor of the has et me in the doorway and shaken me heartily by the hand. “So you were able to come,” he has said; “some friends of mine ‘\'cr_\- anxious to meet you.” He has bustled me across the “Delightful people. You'll like them—have read all your " He has brought me up to you and presented me. We have anged the customary commonplaces; and you are waiting for to say something clever, original and tactful! And I don’t v whether you are Presbyterians or Mormons, protectionists or free traders; whether you are engaged to be married or have lately been aivorced. A friend of mine adopts the sensible plan of always providing you with a short history of the person to whom he is about to lead y “I want to introduce you to 2 Mrs. Jones,” he whispers; " r woman. Wrote a book two years ago. Forgot the name of it—something about twins. Keep away from sausages—father ran a pork shop in the Borough. Husband on the Stock Ex- change. Keep off coke—unpleasantness about a company. You'll get on best by sticking to the book. Lot in it aboul platonic now. friendship. Don’t seem to be looking too closely at her—got a slight squint she doesn’t like noticed.” By this time we have reached the lady, and he introduces one as a friend of his simply dying to know her. “Wants to talk to you about your book,” he explains; “disagrees with you entirely on the subject of platonic friendship, Sure you'll be able to convince him.” It saves us ,both a deal of trouble. I start at once on platonic friendship and ask her questions about twins; avoiding sausages and coke. She thinks me a most interesting man ; and I am less bored than other- wise I might be. % = * - I have sometimes thought it would be a serviceable device if in society we all of us wore a neat card—pinned, say, upon our backs—setting forth such information as is necessary; one’s name legibly written and how to be pronounced ; our age (not necessarily in good faith, but for the purposes of conversation. I seriously hurt a German lady once by demanding of her information about the war of eighteen seventy. She looked to me forty. It turned out she was only twenty-seven. Had I not been an Englishman I might have had to fight a duel) ; our religious and political beliefs, together with a list of the subjects we were most at home upon, and a few facts concerning our career—sufficient to save the stranger from what is vulgarly termed “putting his foot in it.” Before making jokes about Chamherlain or discussing the South African war, one would glance behind him and note whether one’s companion was ticketed “Imperialist” or “Pro-Boer.” Guests de- 4 ”g________—“ : E{QgME v FROME: 4 sirous of agreeable partners—"an agreeable person,” according to the late Lord Beaconsfield’s definition, being “a person who agrees with you”—could make their own selection. “Excuse me. Would you mind turning round a minute. Ah, ‘Wagnerian Crank.” I am afraid we should not get on together. I préfer the Italian school.” Or, “How delightful. I see you don’t believe in vaccination. May I take you in to supper?” Those, on the other hand, fond of argument would choose a suitable opponent. A master of cere- monies might be provided who would stand in the center of room and call for partners: “Lady with strong views on sub of female franchise wishes to meet with gentleman of sound con- servative principles.” “Brewer of comfortable means desires intro- duction to lady abolitionist.” Ed b - For folks closely related to lions, introductions must be try- ing ordeals. You tell them that for years you have been yearning to meet them—that this is indeed a privilege. They, then, at this point, have to explain to you that they are not the Mr. So-and-So, but only his brother or his father; and all you can think of to say is, “Oh, I'm so sorry.” I had a nephew who was a famous teur bicycle champion—I have him still, but he has come down to 2 motor car. In sporting circles I was always introduced as “Shor- land’s uncle.” But my case was not so bad as that of a friend of mine, a doctor. He married a leading actress and was known ever afterward as “Miss Blank’s husband.” “At public dinners, wi you take your seat for the evening next to some one you h: sibly never met before and are never likely to meet again conversation is difficult and dangerous. I remember tz lady at a Vagabond Club dinner. She asked me during t of the evening—with a light laugh, as I afterward recollected— what I thought candidly of the last book of a cert elebrated authoress. I told her and a coldness sprang up b She was the celebrated authoress. She had changed her place so as to avoid sitting next to another lady novelist. One has to change one’s place sometimes on these occasions. A newspaper 1 came up to me once at the Mansion House. “Would y changing places with me,” he asked. “It's so awkward. put me next to my first wife.” * * - ama- ere A troubled evening I had years ago was when I accompanied a young widow to a musical “at home” given by alady who had more acquaintances than she knew. My {riend spoke first. “Say, Mrs. Dash?” The butler did not wait for more, but shouted out: “Mr. and Mrs. Dash?” “My dear, how very quiet you have kept it,” cried our hostess delighted. “Do let me c ulate you? The crush was too great and our hostess too distracted at the mo- ment for any explanations. We were swept away; and both of us spent the remainder of the evening feebly protesting our single- ness. If it had happened on the stage it would have taken us the whole play to get out of it. Stage people are not allowed to put things right when mistakes are made with their identity. If the light comedian is expecting a plumber, the first man that comes into the drawing room has got to be a plumber. He is not allowed to point out that he never was a plumber; that he doesn't look like a plumber; that no one but a blithering idiot would mistake him for a plumber. He has got to be shut up in the bathroom and have water poured over him just as if he were a plumber—a stage plumber, that is. Not till right at the end of the last act is he per- mitted to remark that he happens to be the new te. I sat out a play once at which most people laughed. It m me sad. A dear old lady entered toward the end of the first act. We knew she was somebody’s aunt. Nobody can possibly mistake the stage aunt—except the people on the stage. They, of course, mistook her dor a circus rider and shut her up in a cupboard. It is what cuphoards seem to be reserved for on ghe stage. Nothing is ever put in them except the hero’s relatiols. When she wasn’t in a cupboard she was in a clothes basket or tied up in a curtain. All she need have done was to hold on to something while she said to the hero: “If you'll stop shouting and jumping about for just ten seconds and give me a chance to observe that I am your maiden aunt from Devonshire, all this tomfoolery can be avoided.” That would have ended it. As a matter of fact that is what did end it, at five minutes past eleven. It never occurred to her to say it be- fore. = = = In real life I never knew but one case where a man suffered in silence—unpleasantness he could have ended with a word—and* that was the case of the late Corney Grain. He had been engaged to give his entertainment at a country house. The lady was a nouvelle riche of snobbish instincts. She left instructions that Corney Grain when he arrived was to dine with the servants. The butler, who knew better, apologized, but Corney was a man nopt easily disconcerted. He dined well, and after dinner, rose and ad- dressed the assembled company: “Well, now, my good friends,” said Corney, “if we have all finished, and if you are all agreeable, I shall be pleased to present to you my little show.” The servants cheered. The piano was dispensed with. Corney contrived to amuse his audience very well for half an hour without it. At ten o’clock came down a message: Would Mr. Corney Grain kindly come up into the drawing room. Corney went. The company in the drawing room were waiting seated. “We are quite ready, Mr. Grain,” remarked the hostess. “Ready for what?” demanded Cor- ney. “Four your entertainment,” answered the hostess. “But I've giver/ it already,” explained Corney; “and my engagement was for one performance only.” “Given it. Where? When?” “An hour ago, downstairs.” “But this is nonsense,” exclaimed the hostess. “It seemed to me somewhat extraordinary,” Corney replied, “but it has always been my privilege to dine with the company I am asked to entertain. I took it you had arranged a little treat for the servants.” AWd Corney left to catch his train. = - = Another entertainer told me the following story, although it was a joke against himself. He and Corney Grain were sharing one summer a cottage on the river. A man called early one day to discuss affairs, and was talking to Corney in the parlér, which was on the ground floor. The window was open. The other en- tertainer—the man who told me the story—was dressing in the room above. Thinking he recognized the voice of the visitor bee low, he leaned out of his bedroom window to try to hear better. He leaned out too far and dived headforemost into a bed of flowers, his bare legs—and only his bare legs—showing through the open window of the parlor. “Good gracious,” exclaimed the visitor, turning at the moment and seeing a pair of wriggling legs above the window sill: “Who’s that?” Corney fixed his eye-glass and strolled to the window. “Oh, it’s only Whatshisname,” he ex- plained. “Wonderful spirits. Can be funny in the morning.”