We sat on camp-stools and looked up at the ceiling with our mouths
open.
"'E's late," said Archie.
"I don't believe 'e's coming, and I don't mind 'oo 'ears me sye so,"
said Myra. "So there!"
"'Ot work," I said, wiping my brow.
"Nar, not up there. Not 'ot. Nice and breezy like."
"But 'e's nearer the sun than wot we are, ain't 'e?"
"Ah, but 'e's not 'ot. Not up there."
"'Ere, there 'e is," cried Myra, jumping up excitedly. "Over there.
'Ow naow, it's a bird. I declare I quite thought it was 'im. Silly
of me."
There was silence for a little, and then Archie took a sandwich out
of his pocket.
"Wunner wot they'll invent next," he said, and munched stolidly.
. . . . . . .
"Well done," said Dahlia.
"Thomas and I have been trying to guess," said Simpson, "but the
strain is terrific. My first idea was 'codfish,' but I suppose
that's wrong. It's either 'silkworm' or 'wardrobe.' Thomas suggests
'mangel-wurzel.' He says he never saw anybody who had so much the
whole air of a wurzel as Archie. The indefinable elan of the wurzel
was there."
"Can't you really guess?" said Myra eagerly.
"I don't know whether I want you to or not. Oh no, I don't want you
to."
"Then I withdraw 'mangel-wurzel,'" said Simpson gallantly.
"I think I can guess," said Blair. "It's--"
"Whisper it," said Simpson. "I'm never going to know."
Blair whispered it.
"Yes," said Myra disappointedly, "that's it."