While singing at a concert somewhere in the neighbourhood of Glasgow, I overheard the chairman say to one of his supporters on the platform, “By jove, that young fellow wasn’t behind the door when the mouths were being distributed.” I turned round, and, stretching my mouth to its utmost extent, said, “Beg pardon, sir, my wee mouth’s my fortune.” The audience wondered why all the people on the platform buried their faces in their handkerchiefs and shook with laughter.