The rain was pouring and there was a big puddle in front of the pub.
A ragged old man was standing there with a rod and hanging a string into the puddle.
A tipsy-looking, curious gentleman came over to him and asked what he was doing. ‘Fishing,’ the old man said, simply.
‘Poor old fool,’ the gentleman thought and he invited the ragged old man to a drink in the pub.
As he felt he should start some conversation while they were sipping their whisky, the gentleman asked, ‘And how many have you caught?’
‘You’re the eighth,’ the old man answered.