When Gammon and Polly met they talked no longer of Lord Polperro or Uncle Clover, but of words.

“I’ve got it this time, Polly!  I swear I’ve got it!  ’Undeserved misfortune is often a—­to the noble mind.’  Why, it’s stimulus, of course!”

“I never heard the word,” declared Polly.  “I’m sending in stroke.”

“Stroke?  What do you mean by that?”

“What do I mean by it?  Why, what they want to say is, that ‘Undeserved misfortune is often a blow to the noble mind,’ don’t they?  But blow can’t be the word, ’cause everybody’d get it.  The dictionary gives stroke for blow, and I’m sure that’s it.”

“Rot! they don’t mean to say that at all!  It ain’t a blow to the noble mind, it’s just the opposite; that’s what they mean.”

“How can it be the opposyte?” shrilled Polly.  “Ain’t it a knock-down if you get what you don’t deserve?”

“I tell you they don’t mean that.  Can’t you understand?  Why, it’s as plain as the nose on your face.”

“Is it?” retorted Polly with indignation.  “If I’ve got a plain nose, why didn’t you tell me so before?  If that’s your way of talking to a lady—­”

“Don’t be a fool, Polly!  It’s a saying, ain’t it?”

And they parted as usual, in dudgeon on both sides, which was not soothed when both found themselves wrong in the literary contest; for the missing word this week, discovered by an East-end licensed victualler, was pick-me-up.

Public opinion found fault with this editorial English.  There rose a general murmur; the loftier spirits demanded a purer vocabulary, the multitude wanted to know whether that licensed victualler really existed.  All looked for an easy word next week; easy it must be this time, or the game would begin to lose its zest.  When the new number went forth in its myriads of copies, and was snatched from street vendors, stalls, shops, general expectation seemed to be justified.

“As nations grow civilized they give more and more attention to—­”

Every man, every woman, had a word ready.  Mr. Greenacre said nothing, but hastily wrote down genealogy.  Gammon, before consulting with Polly Sparkes, sent off his postage stamps and commerce.  Mr. and Mrs. Parish declared in one shout that the word could only be hyjene.

“Nonsense!” said Christopher, who was in the room.  “That’s just because you’re always thinking of it.”

For all that, as he went to business the word hummed in his head.  It might be the solution after all; his objection originated only in scorn of a word so familiar, and therefore, he had thought at first, so improbable.  But, really, the more he thought of it—­

In his pocket he carried an envelope, already addressed, and a blank sheet of paper enfolding stamps.  Should he once more enter the lottery—­risk the price of a luncheon?  He had resolved not to do so, but every moment the temptation gained upon him.  “Hyjene.”  By the by, how did one spell the word? H-y—­he grew uncertain at the third letter.  Misspelling, he knew, would invalidate his chance; on the other hand, he must post as soon as possible; already thousands of answers were on their way to the office of the editor.