'Deserted Afric's heart is sad and cold'.
Now, Lister, it's your turn."
Major Lister puffed solemnly at his pipe for at least a minute before he said slowly, pausing after every word:
"'The shores of the vast lake resound with sobs'."
"As literal as a Kelly's crib, 'pon my word!" cried Sir John, laughing; "but I can't say much for your sense of rhythm. Now Barkworth, you're in for the last line. Come along, no shirking:
'Et ton nom, ô Thomas, se mêle au bruit des fiots'."
"What's it mean in plain English? I never made poetry in my life; used to get swished horribly for my verses at school; never could see any good in 'em."
"Gammon! It means: 'And your name, O Thomas, mingles with the noise of the waves'."
"There now, didn't I tell you so! Gammon indeed! Utter tomfoolery! How can his name do any such thing! Pure bosh; I knew it!"
"Play the game and don't argue. You've only to cap Lister's brilliant line, 'The-shores-of-the-vast-lake-re-sound-with-sobs--' syllable by syllable. Come along."