Pot-Pourri 2 1 7 



meet them in the smart restaurants or in the clubs, 

 ordering the best of everything for themselves and 

 their friends. When the dun days come they lie 

 low, and drink " steam " beer and eat the humble 

 sausage — " bag o' mystery," as it is called in Lon- 

 don. Eain or shine they are full of "grit" and 

 humour and charity. I must mention one in par- 

 ticular, a prince of good fellows, the late Dan 

 O'Connell, a nephew of the famous Irishman, and 

 like him in many respects. I remember a day's 

 shooting I had with him many years ago. We shot 

 nothing — for there was nothing to shoot; but we 

 carried with us good store of what Dugald Dalgetty 

 called "provaunt"; and we had a glorious time, 

 supplied by Dan, who was truly inexhaustible. 



To the Western journalist the world is an oyster, 

 which he hopes to open with his quill ; it behoves 

 him therefore to keep that quill in some toughen- 

 ing mixture such as printer's ink. Not long ago 

 I was walking with my father-in-law in San Jos^, 

 a pretty town in California known as the Garden 

 City. Bounding a corner, we came upon a fellow 

 talking to three small boys and an old woman. 

 We halted and listened to a most amazing jargon, 

 something quite inarticulate and incoherent. As 

 we moved on, my father-in-law said that the man 

 was "practising." He was learning, in fine, his 

 trade. One feels sorry for the three small boys 

 and the old woman, but seemingly they had no 

 objection to play the part of strop. I once asked 

 a lady-barber how she learned her art. If you 

 come to think of it the question bristles like the 

 beard of a buccaneer. What man is brave enough 



