WORD CHAINS.
Sheila Davies and her brother had cycled over to play tennis. They sat, with John and myself, on the steps and watched the rain falling.
"As a matter of general interest," said Arthur Davies to me, "when a man invites his friends and neighbours over to play tennis and it pours with rain all the time, what is the correct thing for him to do?"
"As a matter of general interest," I answered, "the good host will send the ladies to play the piano, if any, and to talk scandal, whether there is any or not. He will himself conduct the men of the party to the billiard-room or the smoking-room and offer them cigarettes and whisky—if any."
"Ah," said Davies, "then it isn't usual just to keep them sitting miserably on the steps watching the net float away?"
John, on whose steps we were sitting, felt the need of speech.
"I have often wondered," he said, turning to Miss Davies, "how your brother ever got into such a nice family as yours. How do you keep so cheerful with it always about?"
"One gets used to it in time," said Miss Davies.
"I suppose so," said John. "After all, we have the same sort of family disaster in Alan, but we manage to bear up."
Davies rose.
"You and I don't seem popular here," he said to me. "Will you conduct me to the billiard-room or the smoking-room? I am in need of a wash."
"As a matter of general interest," said John to Miss Davies, "is it the correct thing to wash before setting out to visit friends, or can it be left until some hours after arrival?"
Miss Davies sighed heavily.
"If you two are going to sit here thinking of clever remarks to make about each other I shall go home. For goodness' sake let's pretend we are enjoying ourselves."
"I am enjoying myself," said John plaintively; "I've been wanting to say what I really think of your brother for years."
"Well, don't do it now. Things are miserable enough without having discussions on Arthur. Let's all have a game at something, shall we?"
"Splendid idea," said her brother. "What about tennis?"
"We might get into bathing togs and play polo," I suggested.
"That's not a bad notion," said John, "and then he needn't have a wash until to-morrow."
"I suggest," continued Miss Davies, "that we play at Word Chains."
Davies buried his face in his hands and groaned.
"It sounds fine," I said gallantly. "What is it?"
"Well, it's really a sort of mind exercise. They recommend it in those courses, you know," said Miss Davies, "er—'it stimulates a logical sequence in reasoning and quickens the mental processes.'"
"Is that what they say about it?" asked John fearfully.
"But it makes a splendid game," added Miss Davies eagerly. "Let me explain it to you and you'll see. First of all we think of a word, such as—er—'margarine.'"
"Why?" asked John.
"It's part of the game, of course," said Miss Davies indignantly.
"Oh, I see—of course. How stupid of me!" said John.
"Then we think of another word quite different, such as—"
"'Hippopotamus,'" I suggested.
"That's right," said Miss Davies.
I stood up and bowed.
"Well, I'm hanged!" said John. "Jolly good, Alan. However did you guess it? Has he won?" he asked Miss Davies.
"Of course not," said she; "we haven't begun yet."
I sat down again hurriedly.
"Then," continued Miss Davies, "we take turns, starting with the word 'margarine' and making a chain, each word being connected in some way with the one before it. And whoever can get to the word 'hippopotamus' first has won."
"One hippopotamus?" asked John.
"WON," said Miss Davies sweetly.
Her brother groaned again.
"I'll just give you an easy example," went on Miss Davies enthusiastically, "and then we'll begin. Take the words 'fire' and 'nigger.' A good chain would be 'fire—coal—black—nigger.' Do you see?
John and I made sounds expressing that we thought we did. Davies just went on groaning.
"Very well," said Miss Davies, "we'll begin. Now don't forget. We start with 'margarine' and try to get to 'hippopotamus.' The great thing is to keep the word 'hippopotamus' in your mind all the time and keep trying to work towards it. Are you ready? Right! I'll start with 'grease.'"
"Greece?" said John, looking startled.
"Yes, margarine—grease," explained Miss Davies.
"Oh, I see," said John, "er—oil."
I thought seriously for a moment.
"Salad," I said, looking round for approval.
"Splendid," said Miss Davies. "Now you, Arthur."
"I refuse—Oh, all right," he said. "Where have we—'salad'—er—'lobster.'"
Do you catch the idea, as it were? We seemed to fall into the way of it in a moment. Once we had tried we progressed at a tremendous rate. Perhaps we are all very clever, or perhaps it was really easier than it seems in the telling, but looking back the conversation seems to have been simply brilliant.
Well, here's an idea of how we went on, anyway, and you can judge for yourselves (Davies, you remember, has just snapped out "Lobster"):—
Miss Davies (quick as lightning). Shrimp.
John. Whiskers. (A very subtle one, this.)
Me. Beard. (Rather weak effort.)
Davies. Moustache. (Weaker still; received with groans.)
Miss Davies (quick as another lightning). Charlie Chaplin. (Loud cheers here and laughter, followed by a long pause while John thinks.) At last:—
John. Mary Pickford.
Me (after another pause). Douglas Fairbanks.
Davies (indicating with a wave of the hand that it has been forced on him). D.W. Griffiths.
There is a slight hold-up at this point while Miss Davies tells her brother that he is not trying, and he says he knows he isn't. Miss Davies gets back on to the track amidst applause, however, with:—
"Broken Blossoms."
After this things went on for a long time, hours and hours I should say. I remember that we mentioned among many subjects of interest sausage-rolls, horoscopes, hair-pins, Cleopatra's Needle and lung-wort. I must resist the temptation to tell the whole absorbing story in detail, and skip rapidly to the point where the chase reached the following interesting stage:—
Miss Davies (still going strong). Whale.
John (struggling hard but growing weak). Oil.
Me (quite innocently). Grease.
Davies (triumphantly). Margarine.
I looked at Miss Davies in embarrassment. John gazed round pitifully.
"But," he murmured weakly, "isn't that where we started?"
"Of course it is," said Miss Davies indignantly. "You've spoilt the whole game, Arthur."
"Well, I can't help it," said her brother; "I thought that was the word we were after. What was it, anyway?"
We all looked at the sky and thought hard.
"Hanged if I know," said John.
"I'm sure I don't," I said.
"Well, isn't that ridiculous?" said Miss Davies.
"Of course it is," said her brother brutally; "I knew it was ridiculous from the beginning. You said it quickened the mental processes. Would memory be one of them?"
"Let's go inside and have some tea," said John.
We crept quietly indoors.
Halfway through tea Miss Davies suddenly waved her teaspoon aloft. We looked at her and saw a great light shining in her eyes.
"Hip—hip—hippopotamus!" she shrieked.
We all agreed that Miss Davies had won.
Magnanimity.
There was once a satirical pup
Who with newspaper rule was fed up,
So he wrote bitter rhymes
Which disparaged The Times
But were praised in its weekly Lit. Supp.
"The Canadian officials refused to allow her to land because she did not proopse to carry out her original intention tom arry Captain ——, and the New Yorkaut horities declined to interfere with the Canadian decision."—Daily Paper.
But what we really want to know is where Tom and 'Arry come in.
"New York, Sunday.
The s.s. Minnehaha left here yesterday for London with fifty crates of American birds and a great variety of animals.
Three trunks were carried for the oppossum to build in and for the beavers to gnaw."—Daily Mirror.
Nothing is said about the other creatures' luggage.
From the time-table of a Hampshire motor-service:—
"The Fares between any points on any route will be found where the vertical line of figures under the name of one of the points meets the horizontal line of figures which terminates in the name of the other of the two points between which it is desired to travel."
The Hampshire Hog needs to be a very learned pig.
Mother. "Well, darlings, what are you playing?"
Margaret. "We're playing at weddings. I'm the bride and Betty's the bridesmaid."
Mother. "But where's the bridegroom?"
Margaret. "Oh, this is a very quiet wedding."