Aitchkin has been doing great things in forage, but prosperity has not
spoilt him. Although he must be aware that I remember him in pre-war days,
when he used to strap-hang to the City with his lunch in a satchel,
nevertheless he often invites me round on those rare occasions when he
dines quietly at home.
The other evening, as he toyed with a modest eight-course dinner, I
perceived that his cheerfulness was a trifle forced, and I thought that
probably he was worrying over the behaviour of his little son, who, tiring
that afternoon of his motor scooter, had done incalculable damage to the
orchid-house with a home-made catapult.
When we were left alone with our cigars he unburdened his soul. It appears
that, ever since the Armistice, ambition has spurred Aitchkin to be
something more than the "& Co." of a firm which has become torpid with war
profits. He had decided to start in business "on his lonesome," and to make
"Aitchkin" and "forage" synonymous terms. Already he had taken over the
premises of a sovereign purse-maker at a "reasonable figure." (When
Aitchkin is "reasonable" somebody loses money.) But his bargain did not
include a Telegraphic Address, and that morning, working from his
letter-heading, "Alfred Aitchkin," he had brought himself to compose an
appropriate word. To the "Alf" of the Christian name he added "Alpha"
representing the initial of the surname (I suspected the assistance of his
lady-typist), making the complete word "Alf-Alpha" or, written
phonetically, "Alfalfa"--Spanish for lucerne. It was a word which could not
fail to fix itself indelibly in the minds of his clients, for it recalled
not only Aitchkin's name, but the commodity he dealt in. Full of the pride
of authorship he had driven round to the G.P.O. in his touring car.
"But they crabbed it at once," he said sadly. "Telegraphic addresses
nowadays have to conform to a lot of rotten new rules."
He handed me a slip of paper on which, over the dead body of "Alfalfa," he
had jotted down the following notes:--
(1) Not less than eight, not more than ten letters.
(2) Must not be composed of words or parts of words.
(3) Words or parts of words may be accepted if they appear in the middle.
(4) Must not look like a word.
(5) Must be pronounceable.
(6) Russian names, on account of their unusual spelling might be accepted.
"And what's more," Aitchkin continued, "even when you've got a word which
the Department will accept, it has to be submitted to a Committee who take
'ten to fourteen days' to make up their minds."
A faint tinkling of the piano came to our ears. Mrs. Aitchkin was waiting
to sing to us. I produced pencil and paper and threw myself heart and soul
into Aitchkin's problem.
"Rules 2 and 3 are a little contradictory," I said, "and it will require no
slight ingenuity to form a combination of letters which shall be
pronounceable (Rule 5) and yet avoid the damnable appearance of a word
(Rule 4). The concession about Russian names reminds me of something I have
read about shaking hands with murder. In any case it is a barren
concession, because, as we have seen, telegraphic addresses must be
pronounceable. There is something sinister here," I continued. "This is the
work of no ordinary mind. Some legal brain is behind all this."
Love of the bizarre and the latitude of the Russian Rule led me to make my
first attempt with the name of that all-round Bolshevik sportsman,
BLODNJINKOFF, and I was endeavouring to abridge it to not less than eight
and not more than ten letters without spoiling the natural beauty of the
name when Aitchkin stopped me rather brusquely. And my next effort,
"PLUCROES," he quashed, because he said that the implacable suspicion of
the G.P.O. would be at once aroused by the diphthong. I fancy, though, from
the narrowing of his eyes that he had some misgivings as to the derivation
of the word.
I then set to work with alternate consonants and vowels (which must give a
pronounceable word), dealing with difficulties under the other rules as
they might arise. Meanwhile Aitchkin, after the manner of an obstructionist
official of the worst type, sat over me with the rules, condemning my
results. Even "Telegrams: HAHAHAHAHA London," merely caused him to sniff
contemptuously.
"You'll like this one," I exclaimed--"ARLEYOTA. This is a combination of
the word 'barley' (the 'b' being treated as obsolete like the 'n' in
'norange') and the word 'oat' with the 'a' and 't' transposed."
Aitchkin was interested. Breathing heavily, he tested the word with each
rule in turn, while I sat relaxed in my chair. I pictured ARLEYOTA passed
by the Department and brought into a hushed chamber before a solemn
conclave of experts. How they would probe and analyse it during those
momentous ten to fourteen days. And what a sensation there would be when
they discovered that ARLEYOTA begins and ends with the indefinite article.
Aitchkin thrust the papers into his pocket and rose abruptly, jamming the
stopper more tightly into a decanter with his podgy hand.
"Not too bad, ARLEYOTA," he said loftily; "I'll get them to polish it up at
the office to-morrow." (So I _was_ right about the lady-typist).
He opened the door and we passed out.
"But it ends in TA," he shouted against the _Roses of Picardy_ which now
came with unbroken force from the drawing-room. "'TA' is a word, you know."
"_You_ may use it as such," I bawled, "but they've never heard of it among
the staff of the G.P.O."
* * * * *