“What did you say made five?” asked Jeremy.
“I didn't say five. I said four. Twice two.”
“Is that as well as 'add three,' Miss Jones? I've got twice two, and then add three, and then twice two—”
“No, no. I was only telling Jeremy—”
“Please, Miss Jones, would you mind beginning again—”
This is a very unpleasant game for a lady with neuralgia.
Or there is the game of Making a Noise. At this game, without any earlier training or practice, Jeremy was a perfect master. The three children would be sitting there very, very quiet, learning the first verse of “Tiger, Tiger, burning bright—” A very gentle creaking sound would break the stillness—a creaking sound that can be made, if you are clever, by rubbing a boot against a boot. It would not come regularly, but once, twice, thrice, a pause, and then once, twice and another pause.
“Who's making a noise?”
Dead silence. A very long pause, and then it would begin again.
“That noise must cease, I say. Jeremy, what are you doing?”