“Ha!” he exclaimed.  “So you have forced the pantry.  I see flour on your lips.  Prepare to die.”

Mrs. Bluebeard only smiled.

“Not so fast,” she muttered.  At this moment Herbert Hoover entered the house.

“So you are the wretch who has been storing up private food supplies, contrary to my orders!” he exclaimed.  “Ninety days in jail!”

Whereupon Mrs. Bluebeard, waving her late lord and master farewell, prepared to beat up a luscious eggnog.

SCOTCH THRILLS

Sandy Macpherson came home after many years and met his old sweetheart.  Honey-laden memories thrilled through the twilight and flushed their glowing cheeks.

“Ah, Mary,” exclaimed Sandy, “ye’re just as beautiful as ye ever were, and I ha’e never forgotten ye, my bonnie lass.”

“And ye, Sandy,” she cried, while her blue eyes moistened, “are just as big a leear as ever, an’ I believe ye jist the same.”

HIS APPLICATION

An alien, wishing to be naturalized, applied to the clerk of the office, who requested him to fill out a blank, which he handed him.  The first three lines of the blank ran as follows: 

Name?

Born?

Business?

The answers follow: 

Name, Jacob Levinsky.

Born, Yes.

Business, Rotten.

A CLINCHER

Pat O’Flaherty, very palpably not a prohibitionist, was arrested in Arizona recently, charged with selling liquor in violation of the Prohibition law.  But Pat had an impregnable defense.  His counsel, in addressing the jury, said: 

“Your Honor, gentlemen of the jury, look at the defendant.”

A dramatic pause, then: 

“Now, gentlemen of the jury, do you honestly think that if the defendant had a quart of whiskey he would sell it?”

The verdict, reached in one minute, was “Not guilty.”

SMARTY

A full-blown second lieutenant was endeavoring to display his great knowledge of musketry.  Sauntering up to the latest recruit, he said: 

“See here, my man, this thing is a rifle, this is the barrel, this is the butt, and this is where you put the cartridge in.”

The recruit seemed to be taking it all in, so the officer, continuing, said: 

“You put the weapon to your shoulder; these little things on the barrel are called sights; then to fire you pull this little thing, which is called the trigger.  Now, smarten yourself up, and remember what I have told you; and, by the way, what trade did you follow before you enlisted?  A collier, I suppose!”

“No, sir,” came the reply; “I only worked as a gunsmith for the Government Small Arms Factory.”

THE ECLIPSE TO ORDER