A Hundred and Thousand

I still don't hear it, said Saint Nicholas.

Ha ha! said Wittgenstein. It was a joke.

A joke, said Saint Nicholas. I don't get it.

Run, run, as fast as you can, said Wittgenstein. I thought everyone knew that rhyme.

It's not a rhyme, said Saint Nicholas.

It is when you complete it, said Wittgenstein scornfully. You can't catch me, I'm the gingerbread man.

Donner and Blitzen! exclaimed Saint Nicholas. I though you were a philosopher, not a comedian.

I was merely attempting to return our attention to the gingerbread, said Wittgenstein. If we don't begin eating it soon, someone will come in, then we will start talking and it will be too late.

A good point, said Saint Nicholas. Shall we?

They each took a gingerbread man and began to chew. Just then Belle et Bonne arrived.

Good afternoon, gentlemen, she said brightly. I see you have helped yourselves to the gingerbread. Do please continue eating.

Saint Nicholas continued chewing at a steady pace. Wittgenstein swallowed his gingerbread man quickly.

Mr Wittgenstein, said Belle et Bonne. I'm sure you won't be offended if I tell you there is a red hundred and thousand stuck to your top lip.

A hundred and thousand? said Wittgenstein. What is a hundred and thousand?

The little coloured balls sprinkled on the icing, said Belle et Bonne. They're called hundreds and thousands.

That may be, said Wittgenstein. But that a single one of them should be called a hundred and thousand. That is remarkable.

I hadn't thought of that, said Belle et Bonne, but I suppose it is.

Language-games are my particular field of study, said Wittgenstein.

Run run, said Saint Nicholas, finishing his gingerbread.

Oh, Saint Nicholas, said Belle et Bonne. You've made a joke. How funny you are.