or the time."

"It isn't much fun being a toy," said the Idiot. "I think I'd rather
play Alp."

"What on earth is Alp?" asked Mr. Pedagog, his curiosity aroused. "I've
heard enough absurd names for games in the last five years, but I must
say, for pure idiocy and lack of suggestiveness, the name of Alp
surpasses all."

"That's as it should be," said the Idiot. "My small cousin invented
Alp, and anything that boy does is apt to surpass all. He takes after me
in some things. But Alp, while it may seem to lack suggestiveness as a
name, is really just the name for the game. It's very simple. It is
played by one Alp and as many chamois as desire to take a hand. As a
rule the man plays the Alp and the children are the chamois. The man
gets down on his hands and knees, puts his head on the floor, and has a
white rug put on his back, the idea being that he is an Alp and the rug
represents its snow-clad top."

"And the chamois?" asked Mr. Whitechoker.

"The chamois climbs the Alp and jumps about on the top of it," said the
Idiot. "My experience, based upon two hours a day of it for ten
consecutive days, is that it's fun for the chamois but rough on the
Alp; and I got so after a while that I really preferred business to
pleasure and gave up playing Alp to return to work before my vacation
was half over."

"How do you score in this game of Alp?" said Mr. Pedagog, smiling
broadly as he thought of there being an embryo idiot somewhere who could
discomfit the one fate had thrown across his path.

"I never had the strength to inquire," said the Idiot. "But my
impression is that the game is to see which has the greater endurance,
the chamois or the Alp. The one that gets tired of playing first loses.
I always lost. My small cousin is a storehouse of nervous energy. I
believe he could play choo-choo cars with a real engine and last longer
than the engine--which being the case, I couldn't hope to hold out
against him."

"My nephews didn't play Alp," said the Poet. "I believe Alp would have
been a positive relief to me. They made me tell them stories and poems
from morning until night, and all night too, for one of them shared his
room with me, and the worst of it all was that they all had to be new
stories and new poems, so I was kept composing from one week's end to
the other."

"Why weren't you firm with them and say you wouldn't, and let that end
it?" said Mr. Pedagog.

"Ha--ha!" laughed the Idiot. "That's fine, isn't it