I had bought the little book at the station stall, and it seemed to be
very well worth the sixpence which I paid for it. It was entitled
"Everybody's Book of Bright and Original Conundrums." Of course I had
an idea in my head in buying the book; I am not the man to throw away
my money to no purpose. I thought that these conundrums would be not
only a pleasant amusement, but also a valuable intellectual exercise to
Eliza and myself during the winter evenings. Then we could use them for
social purposes during the Christmas party season. I do not know how it
may be with others, but I have often found, when introduced to a lady,
that I have said "Good evening," and then had absolutely nothing else
to say. With the help of the conundrum book I would fill in any awkward
pause by asking her who was the most amiable king in history. That
would break the ice. Besides, if we kept the book reasonably clean, it
might afterward make a very serviceable and acceptable present to
Eliza's mother. I generally know pretty well what I am doing, I think.
I looked at two or three of the conundrums on the way home. There was
one which I do not remember precisely, but remarkably clever--something
about training the shoot and shooting the train. I often wonder who it
is who thinks of these things.
* * * * *
I was, perhaps, rather unfortunate in the evening when I brought the
book home. Something may have occurred to put Eliza out; she was
inclined to be quite sharp with me. I asked her, gaily, in the passage
when I came in, "Can you tell me, dearest, the difference between a
camel and a corkscrew? If not, here is a little volume which will
inform you."
"Oh, yes! One's used for drawing corks, and the other isn't. You
needn't have wasted sixpence on a rubbishy book to tell me that."
"But your answer is not the correct one," I replied. "The correct
answer contains a joke. Think again."
"Well, I can't, then. I've got the wash to count."
I said that the wash could wait, but she would not appear to hear me,
and went off up-stairs.
* * * * *
At supper I took occasion to say:
"You answered me very tartly when I asked you this afternoon for the
difference between a camel and a corkscrew. Perhaps you would not have
done so had you known that I bought that book with the intention of
sending it as a present to your mother."
"Do you think ma would care about it?"
"I think it would cheer her lonely hours. There are upwards of a
thousand conundrums in the book. I have only read twelve, but I found
them all exceedingly amusing, and, at the same time, perfectly
refined."
"Well, I don't see the good of them."
"They are an intellectual exercise, if you try to guess the right
answer."
"I don't believe anybody ever did or ever will guess the right answer."
"If I had time," I said, "I believe I could generally think out a witty
answer myself. I do not want to boast, but I believe so."
"Very well, then," said Eliza, snatching up the book and opening it at
random, "here's one for you. 'If a lady slipped down the steps of St.
Paul's Cathedral, what would she say?' Give me the answer to that."
"I will try to," I replied.
Now, just at the moment when Eliza put the question I felt that I had
really got the answer, and then it seemed to pass away from me. Later
in the evening I was certainly on the right track, when Eliza dropped
her scissors, and the noise again put me off. I spent a very poor
night; the answer kept sort of coming and going. Just as I was dropping
off to sleep, I seemed to have thought of the answer, and then I would
wake up to be sure of it, and find it had slipped me again.
As I was leaving the office, in the evening, after thinking till my
head ached without arriving at any result, I put the question to one of
our clerks. I thought he might possibly know.
"No," he said, "I don't know what a lady would say if she slipped down
those steps. I could make a fair guess at what a man would say, if
that's any good to you." Of course it was not.
So, on my return home, I told Eliza that I had not had enough time to
spare to think of the answer, and I should be glad to know where she
had put the book.
"Oh, I sent that to mother!" she said. "I thought you wanted it sent."
"You might have waited until you knew whether I had finished with it.
But, however, what was the answer to that silly riddle?"
"The one about St. Paul's Cathedral? That wasn't in the book at all. I
made up the question out of my own head for fun."
"Then," I replied, "all I can say is, that your idea of fun is not
mine. It seems to me to be acting a lie. It was not a conundrum at
all."
"It would have been if you could have thought of an answer."
"Say no more," I replied, coldly. "I prefer to drop the subject."