She had
one word which she always kept on hand, and ready, like a life-preserver,
a kind of emergency word to strap on when she was likely to get washed
overboard in a sudden way--that was the word Synonymous. When she
happened to fetch out a long word which had had its day weeks before and
its prepared meanings gone to her dump-pile, if there was a stranger
there of course it knocked him groggy for a couple of minutes, then he
would come to, and by that time she would be away down wind on another
tack, and not expecting anything; so when he'd hail and ask her to cash
in, I (the only dog on the inside of her game) could see her canvas
flicker a moment--but only just a moment--then it would belly out taut
and full, and she would say, as calm as a summer's day, "It's synonymous
with supererogation," or some godless long reptile of a word like that,
and go placidly about and skim away on the next tack, perfectly
comfortable, you know, and leave that stranger looking profane and
embarrassed, and the initiated slatting the floor with their tails in
unison and their faces transfigured with a holy joy.
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