“A doo-hickie?” replied the squadron commander. “A doo-hickie? H’m’m. George, how would you describe a doo-hickie?”
The officer appealed to puffed his pipe in silence for a moment. “Well,” he said at length, “you know more or less what a gadget’s like?”
“Yes.”
“And a gilguy?”
“Yes.”
“Well, a doo-hickie is something like that, only smaller as a rule.”
There was a silence. Then the squadron commander leaned forward and flicked a speck of fluff off the shoulder of the Stranger within their Gates.
“There you are!” he exclaimed triumphantly—“that’s a doo-hickie!”
“Have a drink, anyway,” said the officer who answered to the name of George, soothingly.
The Stranger within the Gates of the Navy-that-Flies had the drink, and from then onwards forbore to ask any more questions.