that every taxi-driver must have a license, and the same principle
should apply to anybody who proposes to act as a raconteur. Telling
a story is a difficult thing--quite as difficult as driving a taxi.
And the risks of failure and accident and the unfortunate consequences
of such to the public, if not exactly identical, are, at any rate,
analogous.

This is a point of view not generally appreciated. A man is apt to
think that just because he has heard a good story he is able and
entitled to repeat it. He might as well undertake to do a snake
dance merely because he has seen Madame Pavlowa do one. The point
of a story is apt to lie in the telling, or at least to depend upon
it in a, high degree. Certain stories, it is true, depend so much
on the final point, or "nub," as we Americans call it, that they
are almost fool-proof. But even these can be made so prolix and
tiresome, can be so messed up with irrelevant detail, that the
general effect is utter weariness relieved by a kind of shock at
the end. Let me illustrate what I mean by a story with a "nub" or
point. I will take one of the best known, so as to make no claim
to originality--for example, the famous anecdote of the man who
wanted to be "put off at Buffalo." Here it is:

A man entered a sleeping-car and said to the porter, "At what time
do we get to Buffalo?" The porter answered, "At half-past three in
the morning, sir." "All right," the man said;
"now I want to get off at Buffalo, and I want you to see that I
get off. I sleep heavily and I'm hard to rouse. But you just make
me wake up, don't mind what I say, don't pay attention if I kick
about it, just put me off, do you see?" "All right, sir," said the
porter. The man got into his berth and fell fast asleep. He never