“Boiled tongue, stewed kidneys, fried liver.”

Said he: 

“Hang your symptoms!  Bring me something to eat!”

“What’s yours?”

“Coffee and rolls, my girl.”

One of those iron-heavy, quarter-inch, thick mugs of coffee was pushed over the counter.  The fastidious person seemed dazed.  He looked under the mug and over it.

“But where is the saucer?” he inquired.

“We don’t give no saucers here.  If we did some low-brow’d come pilin’ in an’ drink out of his saucer, an’ we’d lose a lot of our swellest trade.”

“Do you want a steak for a dollar or a dollar and a half?” demanded the waiter in the Central Park restaurant.

“What’s the difference?” inquired the tourist.

“You get a sharp knife with the dollar and half steak,” explained the waiter.

CUSTOMER—­“By Jove, I am glad to see you back.  Has the strike been settled?”

WAITER—­“What strike, sir?”

CUSTOMER—­“Oh, come, now.  Where have you been since you took my order?”

AFFABLE WAITER—­“How did you find that steak, sir?”

GUEST—­“Oh, quite accidentally.  I moved that piece of potato and there it was, underneath.”

CHAUFFEUR—­“Cup of coffee, doughnuts, and some griddle cakes.”

WAITRESS—­“Cylinder oil, couple of non-skid, and an order of blow-out patches.”

RETALIATION

Even though the war was over, she decided to do her patriotic duty along the hospitality line.  So she called the Army and Navy Club, and transmitted her invitation through a suave-voiced officer.

“I am Mrs. Humpfree McLeod, 33 First Avenue,” she explained, “and I should like to have two of your men come to dinner with us Sunday at half-past one.”

“Yes.  Thank you, Mrs. McLeod.”

“But wait—­be sure, whatever you do, that they aren’t Jews!”

The tone of her voice was emphatic.

Sunday came, bringing two chocolate-colored khaki-clad privates to the McLeod house.  When Mrs. McLeod brushed into the drawing-room to greet her soldiers, all a-smile, she was surprised, to put it mildly.

“Why!” she stammered.  “Why, who invited you here?”

“Our commanding officer,” explained one, “Captain Cohen.”

One morning Jorkins looked over his fence and said to his neighbor, Harkins: 

“What are you burying in that hole?”

“Just replanting some of my seeds, that’s all,” was the answer.

“Seeds!” exclaimed Jorkins, angrily.  “It looks more like one of my hens!”

“That’s all right,” said the other.  “The seeds are inside.”—­Harper’s.

“What’s coming off out in front there?” asked the proprietor of the Tote Fair store in Tumlinville, Ark.

“A couple of fellers from Straddle Ridge swapped mules,” replied the clerk, “and now each is accusing the other of skinning him.”