Dictionary. The routine is simplicity itself. As soon as anybody informs
him of a new arrival in the area he fishes out the dictionary, plays
Tit-Tat-Toe with the H.B., writes out the word that it lands upon at the
end of his rhyme, and, hey presto! there is another day's work done.

But one day, for the sake of greater secrecy, it became necessary to
rename all the units of the area, and the Literary Adviser suddenly
found himself put to it to provide about three hundred new Code Names at
once. Heroically he set to work with his dictionary, his H.B. pencil,
and his little rhyme. For two days the Resplendent Ones in the General
Staff Office bore patiently with the muttering madman in the corner.
For two days he fluttered the leaves of his dictionary and
whispered hoarsely to himself, "Tit-tat-toe, my-first-go,
three-jolly-nigger-boys-all-in-a-_row_," picking out word after word
with unerring accuracy until the dictionary was a waste of punctures and
three generations of H.B.'s had passed away. Before the second day was
out the jingle had done its dreadful work. It was as much as the clerks
could do to avoid keeping step with it. The climax came when the Senior
Resplendent One, looking down at the telegram he was writing, found to
his horror that he had written, "Situation quiet Tit-Tat-Toe. Hostile
artillery activity normal Tit-Tat-Toe," and so on, substituting this
abomination in place of the official stop, ("Ack-Ack-Ack") throughout.

It was enough. Still gibbering, the Literary Adviser was hurled forth
from the office and told to work his witchcraft in solitude.

Paler, thinner and older by years he emerged from his retirement
triumphant, and the new code names went forth to a flourish of trumpets
or rather of the hooters of the despatch-riders.