“There aren’t many things you can put on glowing coal,” said Tuppence thoughtfully. “There’s water, to put it out, or wood, or a kettle.”
“It must be one syllable, I suppose? What about wood , then?”
“You couldn’t put anything into wood, though.”
“There’s no one syllable word instead of water , but there must be one syllable things you can put on a fire in the kettle line.”
“Saucepans,” mused Tuppence. “Frying pans. How about pan ? Or pot ? What’s a word beginning pan or pot that is something you cook?”
“Pottery,” suggested Tommy. “You bake that in the fire. Wouldn’t that be near enough?”
“The rest of it doesn’t fit. Pancakes? No. Oh! bother.”
They were interrupted by the little serving maid, who told them that dinner would be ready in a few minutes.
“Only Mrs. Lumley, she wanted to know if you’d like your potatoes fried, or boiled in their jackets? She’s got some of each.”
“Boiled in their jackets,” said Tuppence promptly. “I love potatoes—” She stopped dead with her mouth open.
“What’s the matter, Tuppence? Have you seen a ghost?”
“Tommy,” cried Tuppence. “Don’t you see? That’s it! The word, I mean. Potatoes! ‘My first you put on glowing coal’—that’s pot . ‘And into it you put my whole.’ ‘My second really is the first.’ That’s A, the first letter of the alphabet. ‘My third mislikes the wintry blast’—cold toes of course!”
“You’re right, Tuppence. Very clever of you. But I’m afraid we’ve wasted an awful lot of time over nothing. Potatoes don’t fit in at all with missing