There were many games to be played with Miss Jones. She always began her morning with a fine show of authority, accumulated, perhaps, during hours of Spartan resolution whilst the rest of the household slept. “To-morrow I'll see that they do what I tell them--”
“Now, children,” she would say, “I'm determined to stand no nonsense this morning. Get out your copy books.” Five minutes later would begin: “Oh, Miss Jones, I can't write with this pencil. May I find a better one?” Granted permission, Mary's head and large spectacles would disappear inside the schoolroom cupboard. Soon Jeremy would say very politely: “Miss Jones, I think I know where it is. May I help her to find it?” Then Jeremy's head would disappear. There would follow giggles, whispers, again giggles; then from the cupboard a book tumbles, then another, then another. Then Miss Jones would say: “Now, Jeremy, come back to the table. You've had quite enough time--” interrupted by a perfect avalanche of books. Mary crying:
“Oh, Jeremy!” Jeremy crying: “I didn't; it was you!” Miss Jones: “Now, children--”
“Please, Miss Jones, may I help Mary to pick the books up? There are rather a lot.” Then, both on their knees, more whispers and giggles. Miss Jones, her voice trembling: “Children, I really insist--” And more books dropped, and more whispers and more protests, and so on ad infinitum. A beautiful game to be played all the morning.
Or there was the game of Not Hearing. Miss Jones would say: “And twice two are four.” Mary would repeat loudly: “And twice two is five--”
And then a second later Jeremy would ask:
“Oh, I've written five--and now it's all wrong. Didn't you write five, Mary?”
“Yes, I've written five. You did say four, didn't you, Miss Jones?”
“What did you say made five?” asked Jeremy.
“I didn't say five. I said four. Twice two.”
“Is that as well as 'add three,' Miss Jones? I've got twice two, and then add three, and then twice two--”
“Please, Miss Jones, would you mind beginning again--”
This is a very unpleasant game for a lady with neuralgia.
Or there is the game of Making a Noise. At this game, without any earlier training or practice, Jeremy was a perfect master. The three children would be sitting there very, very quiet, learning the first verse of “Tiger, Tiger, burning bright--” A very gentle creaking sound would break the stillness--a creaking sound that can be made, if you are clever, by rubbing a boot against a boot. It would not come regularly, but once, twice, thrice, a pause, and then once, twice and another pause.