The race goes to the swift

Not feeling too swift today?  Maybe some Tom Swifties will cheer you up.

“Please ring the bell,” she appealed.


“The fire’s going out!” he bellowed.

“That’s my gold mine!” he claimed. “But it was mine!” he exclaimed.

“More steamers all around!” they clamored.

“We’ve taken over the government,” the general cooed.

“You can’t really train a beagle,” he dogmatized. “That’s no beagle, it’s a mongrel,” she muttered.

“I used to be a pilot,” he explained.

“Oh, brother,” Tom said grimly.

“Company’s coming, right?” she guessed.

“I used too much gold paint,” he said guiltily.

“The maid’s off today,” he said helplessly.

“What did you do all day?” he asked her. “Sewed and gardened,” she hemmed and hawed.

“Dawn comes too soon,” she mourned.

“What was that game called with the knife?” mumbled Peg.

“Nothing, nothing,” Tom said naughtily.

“Be sure and see that psychiatrist,” she reminded me.

“But my experiment was a success,” the chemist retorted.

“I wanted chocolate, not vanilla!” I screamed.

“I might as well end it all,” Sue sighed.

“I only subscribe to Newsweek,” he said timelessly.

“Who? What?” said Tom warily.

“I’ll be sure and bequeath it to you,” she said willingly.

“And you lose some,” Tom said winsomely.