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At Laurence Button's table two or three years ago,
Henry Irving spoke across to me and asked if I had heard
the story about such and such a man, etc. It cost me
something to say no, but I said it. Then he started to tell
the story—hesitated—said—you are sure you haven't
heard it: I braced up again and said—no, perfectly sure.
He went on, a sentence or two further, and once more
interrupted himself to inquire if I was absolutely certain
I hadn't heard it. Then I said: "I can lie once, I can lie
twice, for courtesy's sake; but I draw the line there; I
can't lie the third time, at any price: I have heard the
story, for I invented it myself." And that was the truth.

In Australia a man dropped in to talk with me at a
club and I saw in a moment that he was a person with a
local story-telling reputation and that he was going to
show off before the company. He began to remark upon
the slowness of the New Zealand railway service and I
saw that he was working up the atmosphere for an anec-
dote and presently he launched the anecdote. Anecdote
about how he advised the conductor to put the cowcatcher
on the other end of the train "because we are not going
to overtake any cows, but there is no protection against
their climbing aboard at the other end and biting the pas-
sengers." I could have embarrassed him a little by re-
minding that there are no cowcatchers on Australian
trains; and I could have embarrassed him still more, per-
haps, by showing him that I had printed that little tale
when he was a boy. In fact I invented it for use in a lec-
ture, a hoary long time ago.

Sunday, June 14. Very heavy sea on tonight. Our ship
lies in sight half a mile away, but we may not be able to
get across the bar tomorrow.

The human imagination is much more capable than it

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