“How is it?  Am I walking straight?”

“Oh, ay,” answered Sandy thickly, “ye’re a’ recht—­but who’s that who’s with ye.”

A man in a very deep state of intoxication was shouting and kicking most vigorously at a lamp post, when the noise attracted a near-by policeman.

“What’s the matter?” he asked the energetic one.

“Oh, never mind, mishter.  Thash all right,” was the reply; “I know she’sh home all right—­I shee a light upshtairs.”

A pompous little man with gold-rimmed spectacles and a thoughtful brow boarded a New York elevated train and took the only unoccupied seat.  The man next him had evidently been drinking.  For a while the little man contented himself with merely sniffing contemptuously at his neighbor, but finally he summoned the guard.

“Conductor,” he demanded indignantly, “do you permit drunken people to ride upon this train?”

“No, sir,” replied the guard in a confidential whisper.  “But don’t say a word and stay where you are, sir.  If ye hadn’t told me I’d never have noticed ye.”

A noisy bunch tacked out of their club late one night, and up the street.  They stopped in front of an imposing residence.  After considerable discussion one of them advanced and pounded on the door.  A woman stuck her head out of a second-story window and demanded, none too sweetly:  “What do you want?”

“Ish thish the residence of Mr. Smith?” inquired the man on the steps, with an elaborate bow.

“It is.  What do you want?”

“Ish it possible I have the honor of speakin’ to Misshus Smith?”

“Yes.  What do you want?”

“Dear Misshus Smith!  Good Misshus Smith!  Will you—­hic—­come down an’ pick out Mr. Smith?  The resh of us want to go home.”

That clever and brilliant genius, McDougall, who represented California in the United States Senate, was like many others of his class somewhat addicted to fiery stimulants, and unable to battle long with them without showing the effect of the struggle.  Even in his most exhausted condition he was, however, brilliant at repartee; but one night, at a supper of journalists given to the late George D. Prentice, a genius of the same mold and the same unfortunate habit, he found a foeman worthy of his steel in General John Cochrane.  McDougall had taken offense at some anti-slavery sentiments which had been uttered—­it was in war times—­and late in the evening got on his legs for the tenth time to make a reply.  The spirit did not move him to utterance, however; on the contrary, it quite deprived him of the power of speech; and after an ineffectual attempt at speech he suddenly concluded: 

“Those are my sentiments, sir, and my name’s McDougall.”

“I beg the gentleman’s pardon,” said General Cochrane, springing to his feet; “but what was that last remark?”

McDougall pronounced it again; “my name’s McDougall.”

“There must be some error,” said Cochrane, gravely.  “I have known Mr. McDougall many years, and there never was a time when as late as twelve o’clock at night he knew what his name was.”