Every one said “Oh!”--every one save Chub. “I should have guessed that next,” he remarked easily. “Oh, what a fib, Chub!” said Harry. “You’d never have guessed it, and you know it.” “I don’t quite see what you mean about ‘nails and no toes,’” said Dick. “Don’t you? Why, a ship’s put together with nails, Dick.” “Sure,” murmured Dick, while the rest laughed. “And--and how about the rest of it, sir?” “A sheet is a rope that hoists a sail, as you doubtless know,” explained the doctor. “As for the fingers and rings, why, the masts are the fingers, and the rings are the wooden rings that the sails are attached to. There you are, sir.” “To think of you making that up yourself!” sighed Harry. “You did make it up yourself, papa?” “Yes, it’s quite home-made,” was the reply. “Suppose the rest of you try it.” “I couldn’t make mine rhyme,” said Harry. “I never could make things rhyme.” “I will make up the first one,” said Chub. “Are you all ready?” They told him they were, and Chub cleared his throat portentously. “Well--er--why am I like a young pig with a pink nose?” “There’s so many reasons,” said Dick, “but, to keep you in good humor, I speak for all when I say we give it up.” “Because I’m always Eaton: see? _Eaton--eating!_” “What’s the pink nose got to do with it?” asked Roy. “Oh, I just put that in to make it harder.” “That’s a rank conundrum!” jeered Dick. “There speaks envy,” returned Chub, sadly. “Let’s hear you give a better one.” “All right. Why did the animals go into the ark?” “Because there was Noah else!” shouted Harry. “That’s an old one, Dick, and you didn’t make it up at all.” “Didn’t say I did. Chub challenged me to give a better one, and I did it.” “Here’s one,” said Roy. “I think it’s original, but I won’t vouch for it. When is a wagon not a wagon?” “When it’s a cart?” asked the doctor. “No, sir.” “When it’s awheel,” cried Harry, eagerly. “N-no, but that isn’t so bad. Give it up?” “Yes.” “When it turns into a road.” “That’s lovely!” said Harry. “I must remember that. ‘When is a wagon not a wagon? When it’s a road;’ no, no, ‘when it turns _into_ a road.’ I know one, but it’s not original.” “Out with it,” said Chub. “The answer’s on the tip of my tongue.” “Well, then, what’s the best age for a small house?” “Cott-age,” answered Dick, to Harry’s disappointment. “You knew it,” she objected. “You ought to have let Chub try.” “Pshaw! he’d never have guessed it. He hasn’t guessed one yet.” “Just wanted to give the rest of you a show,” replied Chub, amiably. “Don’t you know any more, doctor?” “Let me see,” said the doctor. “I used to know some. Here’s one; perhaps you all know it, however.” “Do I know it, papa?” asked Harry. “If you do you mustn’t tell. Now then: What throat trouble did George Washington have when he chopped down the cherry-tree?” Nobody knew, and the doctor had to dispel their ignorance. “Why, a hacking cough, to be sure. And what remedy did his father give him?”