The Prized Autograph.

The scene was a street in London and the time was eleven o'clock on a hot Thursday morning; two navvies of the gas company paused in the sweltering job of digging a deep hole in the road. There passed a labourer who, despite the hour (and day), had obviously “had one”—or two.

Peering over the top of the hole, one of the navvies saw the convivial one and remarked to his pal: “Strewth, 'Arry, there's a bloke wot's canned already.”

“Luv us, so 'e is,” exclaimed 'Arry, and then added in a mixture of mock admiration and envy: “Blimey, 'Erb, get 'is autograph.”

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