It was raining hard and a big puddle had formed in front of an Irish pub.
An old man stood beside the puddle holding a stick with a string on the end and jiggled it up and down in the water. A curious gentleman asked what he was doing.
“Fishing,” replied the old man.
“Poor old fool,” thought the gentleman. So he invited the old man to have a drink in the pub.
Feeling he should start some conversation while they were sipping their whisky, the gentleman asked, “And how many have you caught?”
“You’re the eighth.”