Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 103, November 19, 1892 by Various


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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 103,
November 19, 1892, by Various

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net


Title: Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 103, November 19, 1892

Author: Various

Editor: Francis Burnand

Release Date: May 31, 2005 [EBook #15957]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH ***




Produced by Malcolm Farmer, William Flis, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team.





PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 103.



November 19, 1892.




THE MAN WHO WOULD.

II.--THE MAN WHO WOULD PLAY GOLF.

BULGER was no cricketer, no tennis-player, no sportsman, in fact.
But his Doctor recommended exercise and fresh air. "And I'm thinking,
Sir," he added, "that you cannot do better than just take yourself
down to St. Andrews, and put yourself under TOM MORRIS." "Is he a
great Scotch physician?" asked BULGER; "I don't seem to have heard of
him." "The Head of the Faculty, Sir," said the medical man--"the Head
of the Faculty in those parts."

BULGER packed his effects, and, in process of time, he arrived at
Leuchars. Here he observed some venerable towers within a short walk,
and fancied that he would presently arrive at St. Andrews. In this he
was reckoning without the railway system--he was compelled to wait at
Leuchars for no inconsiderable time, which he occupied in extracting
statistics about the consumption of whiskey from the young lady who
ministered to travellers. The revelations now communicated, convinced
BULGER that either Dr. MORRIS was not on the lines of Sir ANDREW
CLARK, or, as an alternative, that his counsels were not listened to
by travellers on that line.

[Illustration]

Arriving in the dusk, BULGER went to his inn, and next morning
inquired as to the address of the Head of the Faculty. "I dinna ken,"
said an elderly person, to whom he appealed, "that the Professors
had made TOM a Doctor, though it's a sair and sad oversicht, and a
disgrace to the country, that they hae'na done sae lang syne. But I
jalouse that your Doctor was jist making a gowk o' ye." "What!" said
BULGER. "Jist playin' a plisky on ye, and he meant that TOM wad pit ye
in the way o' becoming a player. Mon, ye're a bull-neckit, bow-leggit
chiel', and ye'd shape fine for a Gowfer! Here's TOM." And, with this
brief introduction, the old man strolled away.

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