"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.