Humorous Readings and Recitations, in Prose and Verse. Various

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Bracebridge Hemming.

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      Mr. Loyd was a retired shopkeeper residing at The Lodge, Norwood. He had amassed a fortune of thirty thousand pounds in the grocery business, principally by sanding his sugar and flouring his mustard, and other little tricks of the trade. Yet he went to church every Sunday with a clear conscience. At the time I introduce him to you he was a widower with one son, Joseph, aged eighteen.

      Joseph was a shy, putty-faced youth, who had the misfortune to be deaf. "Slightly deaf," his father called him, but he grew worse instead of better, and threatened to become as deaf as a post or a beetle in time. Of course his infirmity stood in the way of his getting employment, for he was always making mistakes of a ludicrous and sometimes aggravating nature. Add to this that Joseph was very lean and his father very fat, and you will understand why people called them "Feast and Famine," or "Substance and Shadow."

      One morning after breakfast, Mr. Loyd, who had been looking over some paid bills, exclaimed, "Joe."

      Joseph was reading the paper, and made no answer.

      "Joe," thundered his father.

      This time the glasses on the sideboard rang, and Joseph got up, walked to the window and looked out.

      "What are you doing?" shouted Mr. Loyd.

      "I thought I heard the wind blow," replied Joseph.

      "Well! I like that; it was I calling."

      "You!"

      "Yes, sir."

      Joseph invariably grew very angry if he did not hear anybody, for he was ashamed of his deafness; but he often fell into a brown study and was as deaf as an adder.

      Besides this he was more deaf on one side than on the other, as is often the case, and he happened to have his very bad ear turned to his father.

      "Why don't you speak out?" said he.

      "I did," replied Mr. Loyd.

      "You always mumble."

      "I halloaed loud enough to wake the dead."

      "You know I'm slightly deaf."

      "Slightly! You'll have to buy an ear-trumpet."

      "Trumpet be blowed," answered Joseph.

      "Here, put these bills on the file," exclaimed Mr. Loyd, pointing to the bundle.

      Joseph advanced to the table, took up the bills, and deliberately threw them into the fire, where they were soon blazing merrily.

      Mr. Loyd uttered a cry of dismay, sprang up and ran to the grate, but he was too late to save them.

      "You double-barrelled idiot!" he cried.

      "What's the fuss now?" asked Joseph calmly.

      He always was as cool as a cucumber, no matter what he did.

      "You'll never be worth your salt."

      "What's my fault?"

      "I said salt."

      "Keep quiet and I'll get you some."

      "No!" roared Mr. Loyd.

      "What did you say so for then? It seems to me you don't know your own mind two minutes together."

      Mr. Loyd stamped his foot with impatience on the carpet.

      "Oh dear! what a trial you are," he exclaimed. "They are receipted bills, and I told you to put them on the file. F. I. L. E. Do you hear that?"

      "I hear it now," responded Joe. "It's a pity you won't speak up."

      "So I do."

      "They'll never call you leather-lungs."

      "Oh Joe, Joe! you'll be the death of me. You're a duffer, and it is no use saying you're not. I was going to tell you I'd got a berth for you, but I'm afraid you could not keep it."

      "What is it?"

      "Clerk in the office of my old friend, Mr. Maybrick, the stockbroker."

      "Eh!" said Joseph. "What's a mockstoker?"

      "A stockbroker," shouted Mr. Loyd.

      "Why didn't you say so at first. Do you think I don't know what that is? I'm not quite such a fool as that comes to."

      "You'd aggravate a saint, Joe."

      "Paint your toe! Have you gone mad?"

      "Great heavens! I shall hit you; get out," shrieked his father.

      "Got the gout. Oh! that's another thing. I thought you'd have it. You drink too much port after dinner."

      "I say, Joe," cried Mr. Loyd, "are you doing this on purpose? You don't understand a word I say; in fact, you misconstrue everything."

      "If that is so I can't help it."

      "You're getting worse."

      "Don't do that," replied Joe gravely.

      "Eh?"

      "Don't curse me. If I am deaf, that is to say slightly deaf, it is my misfortune, not my fault; you ought to make allowance for me, and speak louder."

      "Do you want me to be a foghorn, or a river steam tug?"

      "Certainly not."

      "Or a cavalry man's trumpet, or a bellowing bull?"

      "No, father."

      "Or," continued Mr. Loyd with rising temper, "a spouting whale, an Old Bailey barrister, a town-crier, a grampus, a locomotive blowing off steam, an Australian bell-bird, or a laughing jackass?"

      "I'm sure I never laugh, so you needn't fling that at me."

      "I wish you were dumb as well as deaf," groaned Mr. Loyd.

      "Why?"

      "Because I might then get you into the asylum."

      "File 'em," muttered Joseph. "He's still thinking of the bills."

      "Confound him," muttered his father. "He's worse than a county court judgment. I don't know what to do with him."

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