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PAGE 2

Definitions
by [?]

“We shall have to give it up,” said Norah at last. “What is it?”

“Ebu,” I announced. “My man had a bad cold, and he said, ‘Look, Baria, there’s ad Ebu.’ Er–what do I get for that?”

“Nothing,” said Norah coldly. “It isn’t fair. Now, Mr. Dennis.”

“Mine is not Emu, and it couldn’t be mistaken for Emu; not even if you had a sore throat and a sprained ankle. And it has nothing to do with the Zoo, and—-“

“Well, what is it?”

“It’s what you say at golf when you miss a short putt.”

“I doubt it,” I said.

“Not what Gerald says,” said his wife.

“Well, it’s what you might say. What Horace would have said.”

“‘Eheu’–good,” said Gerald, while his wife was asking “Horace who?”

We moved on to the next word, P–D.

“Mine,” said Norah, “is what you might do to a man whom you didn’t like, but it’s a delightful thing to have and at the same time you would hate to be in it.”

“Are you sure you know what you are talking about, dear?” said Mrs. Gerald gently.

“Quite,” said Norah with the confidence of extreme youth.

“Could you say it again very slowly,” asked Dennis, “indicating by changes in the voice which character is speaking?”

She said it again.

“‘Pound,'” said Gerald. “Good–one to me.”

Mrs. Gerald had “pod,” Gerald had “pond”; but they didn’t define them very cleverly and they were soon guessed. Mine, unfortunately, was also guessed at once.

“It is what Dennis’s golf is,” I said.

“‘Putrid,'” said Gerald correctly.

“Mine,” said Dennis, “is what everybody has two of.”

“Then it’s not ‘pound,'” I said, “because I’ve only got one and ninepence.”

“At least, it’s best to have two. Sometimes you lose one. They’re very useful at golf. In fact, absolutely necessary.”

“Have you got two?”

“Yes.”

I looked at Dennis’s enormous hands spread out on his knees.

“Is it ‘pud’?” I asked. “It is? Are those the two? Good heavens!” and I gave myself a mark.

A–A was the next, and we had the old Emu trouble.

“Mine,” said Norah–“mine is rather a meaningless word.”

“‘Abracadabra,'” shouted everybody.

“Mine,” said Miss Gerald, “is a very strange word, which—-“

“‘Abracadabra,'” shouted everybody.

“Mine,” said Gerald, “is a word which used to be—-“

“‘Abracadabra,'” shouted everybody.

“Mine,” I said to save trouble, “is ‘Abracadabra.'”

“Mine,” said Dennis, “isn’t. It’s what you say at golf when—-“

“Oh lor!” I groaned. “Not again.”

“When you hole a long putt for a half.”

“You generally say, ‘What about that for a good putt, old thing? Thirty yards at least,'” suggested Gerald.

“No.”

“Is it–is it ‘Alleluia’?” suggested Mrs. Gerald timidly.

“Yes.”

“Dennis,” I said, “you’re an ass.”

. . . . .

“And now,” said Norah at the end of the game, “who’s won?”

They counted up their marks.

“Ten,” said Norah.

“Fifteen,” said Gerald.

“Three,” said his wife.

“Fourteen,” said Dennis.

They looked at me.

“I’m afraid I forgot to put all mine down,” I said, “but I can easily work it out. There were five words, and five definitions of each word. Twenty-five marks to be gained altogether. You four have got–er–let’s see–forty-two between you. That leaves me—-“

“That leaves you minus seventeen,” said Dennis. “I’m afraid you’ve lost, old man.” He took up the shovel and practised a few approach shots. “It’s rather a good game.”

I think so too. It’s a good game, but, like all paper games, its scoring wants watching.