King Solomon’s Wives, or, The Phantom Mines
Author: Hyder Ragged
Date: 1886-12-31T15:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science Fiction; Remote Civilization; Satire; Parody; Adventure
Description: A motley crew of would-be adventurers set out to find treasure in the wilds of Darkest Elsewhere. This parody of H. Rider Haggard's “King Solomon's Mines” (1885) is of Science Fiction interest specifically for the spoof description of how the protagonists travel in a balloon equipped with a device which keeps it stationary while the world turns beneath it. A fast and bumpy ride, sometimes veering off-road into regions of slapstick. ~ ~ ~ ~ Hyder Ragged was the pseudonym of UK lawyer and author Henry Chartres Biron (1863-1940). This pseudonym has sometimes erroneously been ascribed to John de M
Publisher: MobileRead.com
Rights: Public domain where copyright is “Life+80 or less, and in the USA.

KING SOLOMON’S WIVES
OR,
THE PHANTOM MINES

A PARODY

HENRY CHARTRES BIRON
WRITING AS
HYDER RAGGED

With illustrations
and illuminated chapter initials;
artist not attributed

MobileRead Edition
2022

A motley crew of would-be adventurers set out to find treasure in the wilds of Darkest Elsewhere. This parody of H. Rider Haggard’s King Solomon’s Mines (1885) is of Science Fiction interest specifically for the spoof description of how the protagonists travel in a balloon equipped with a device which keeps it stationary while the world turns beneath it. A fast and bumpy ride, sometimes veering off-road into regions of slapstick.

Hyder Ragged was the pseudonym of UK lawyer and author Henry Chartres Biron (1863-1940). This pseudonym has sometimes erroneously been ascribed to John de Morgan, himself the author of several Haggard parodies.

King Solomon’s Wives, by Henry Chartres Biron (1863-1940), was first published in 1887. This ebook is in the public domain where copyright is “Life+80” or less, and in the USA.

CONTENTS

… Cover

… Titlepage / About

… List of Illustrations

THE TALE:

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER I
My Plan of the Campaign — I Meet Sir Harry — The Voyage Out

CHAPTER II
Preparations for Our Journey — Umbugs Enters Our Service — Unhappy Ends of Boss and Joss — Our Start

CHAPTER III
Our Journey Across the Great Desert — Starvation — Thirst — The Giraffe — The Buffalo — The Bear

CHAPTER IV
We Find King Solomon’s Road — The Savages Find Us — Reception by Natives and Journey to the Great King Twosh

CHAPTER V
We Enter Ipecacuanha Land — Our Reception by Twosh the King

CHAPTER VI
The Witch Hunt — The Eclipse — Its Effect on Twosh The King — Remarkable Conduct of Umbugs — Saved! Saved!

CHAPTER VII
The Battle — The Charge of the Blues — Confessions of Twosh

CHAPTER VIII
The Treasures of King Solomon

CHAPTER IX
We Find Sir Harry’s Brother — Suppressed Emotion of Sir Harry — Scandal in High Life — Intervention of a Great Personage

CHAPTER X
An Old Friend — Our Departure — Our Arrival in England — Enthusiastic Reception

ILLUSTRATIONS:

- The map to King Solomon’s Treasures

- The Voyage Out:
A lurch to leeward

- Deciphering the map
- Death of Boss
- Sir Harry has a narrow shave
- Scraggi makes a wild shot with a spear
- We commenced our march…
- The eclipse

- The great king Twosh and his court:
A sneeze and its consequences

- The witch hunt

- Twosh comes a nasty one on his knowledge box

- My conjuring tricks …

- King Solomon’s seven hundred wives and three hundred ———

- Scraggi proposes to Miss Fullarder
- Our arrival in England by Balloon
- Finis

KING SOLOMON’S WIVES
OR,
THE PHANTOM MINES

INTRODUCTION

OW  THAT this book is printed, and about to be given to the world, the question will perhaps arise — Why do I write it? Captious people may suggest — for reasons not unconnected with the paltry pence which its sale may produce. Such suggestions I repel with scorn. My reason — I give it without hesitation — is this: To prove my veracity. The one quality for which my family has always been noted is its unswerving veracity. A Quarterman’s word has always been as good as his bond. I have never heard our greatest enemy — and we have enemies, what great family has not? — suggest that the one was worth more than the other.

Now, the scepticism with which my tales of adventure have hitherto been received has been a constant source of annoyance to me, especially as I have no intention of going into the wholesale kettle trade, so I determined to take the step of appealing to the credulity of the public in print. The public, I have observed from long experience, will swallow most things in print, and anything, however outrageous, if only it deals with savages and appears within measurable distance of Christmas. Perhaps I may be for given for adding that our family is one of the oldest in Ireland, and that my initial A. does not stand for Ananias — a popular idea which has caused me much annoyance.

There are many things connected with my journey which I could dwell upon at length: The indigent fawners of Ipecacuanha Land; How we won the great battle of Unlimited Loo. (They would go on the king of trumps unguarded, with five players!) Want of space, and not imagination, as some insinuate, is the sole reason I do not. As for my literary style, I do not think that needs any apology. For years I have borrowed a Sporting Times every Saturday, and what would Sunday be without its Referee? So if anyone says, after this, that my style is not pure, or my wit is lacking in refinement, you will know what to think of him.

When I told Sir Harry and Captain Noegood, R.H.M., that I was writing this book, their advice was: “Pitch it strong, Ananias” (a playful way of addressing me they have. It probably led to the error about my name), and I have endeavoured to carry out their advice to the best of my ability. Aprôpos I might quote a proverb of Ipecacuanha Land, but as it is quite pointless in the original, and slightly improper in English, I will forbear.

A. QUARTERMAN.

CHAPTER I

MY PLAN OF THE CAMPAIGN — I MEET SIR HARRY — THE VOYAGE OUT

ALES of mysterious adventure have always been my delight. Having come to the conclusion, [01] from a careful perusal of some of the more recent of these histories, that the present race of savages is of a peculiarly confiding nature, the time seemed all fitting for a visit to their midst.

[01]  Note by Editor: Why, you have only just begun!
Note by Me: Am I writing this book, or you?
Note by Editor: Very sorry; only my fun.
Note by Me: It may be your idea of fun; it is not mine. Don’t let it occur again.

Why should not I, A. Quarterman, venture on a personally-conducted tour in search of treasure, which there seems to be lying about to a considerable extent just now? [02]  Though no boaster, I may say for an expedition of this character I was suited above my fellows. My life has been adventurous from my cradle. During a brief career as an Irish M.P. of Nationalist leanings I lost a limb. My constituents, with the wild justice of revenge, mistook me for a land-grabber and shot me in the legs — the right one. The American funds supplied me with a cork substitute.

[02]  Note by Editor: Is not this sentence rather ambiguous?
Note by Me: Not a bit — one of my pet passages.

The affair, published in the Benighted Irishman as an incident of the campaign, proved a great success. Our receipts doubled within the week. How well I remember the parish priest presenting me with the leg, and saying as he did so with a humour racy of the soil:

“Ye have stood for Cork for some time, me boy, now cork shall stand for you.” Dear chap, I wonder what, or whom, he is doing now!

In addition to this advantage, I have been bald for years, and have allowed Art to step in to Nature’s aid (as the advertisement beautifully puts it) in the form of a wig. Anyone who pretends to any knowledge of the savage mind will see at a glance what weapons we had here, what a wealth of resource to fall back upon in the case of any encounter with the aborigines. Of course, I bought an eye-glass. Oddly enough, I never could hold it properly in my eye. Eventually, I gave it to Umbugs — but I am anticipating.

The idea of fitting myself with a complete set of false teeth did occur to me, but I abandoned it on account of the expense. However, I took a few easy lessons in legerdemain to keep up, if necessary, the character of magician, which I understand the simple child of the desert ascribes to one on the smallest provocation.

After making all my arrangements, I had to account for my absence to my wife, for I am a family man. To soften the shock of my departure, I adopted a ruse for which I hope I may be forgiven. I stated I had been summoned to serve on a special jury in the great cause celèbre of “Dash v. Dash and Dash and several others” before Mr. Justice Tub, in the High Courts of Justice. My wife was loth to let me leave her; and I only got away in the end on faithfully promising to take down all the suppressed evidence in shorthand. She bore, as I heard afterwards, the separation with an equanimity which proved her a worthy mate of a great traveller.

The reader may ask, Was I going alone on this great enterprise, to seek single-handed for the treasures of King Solomon? for such I do not now mind admitting was the desperate nature of my quest.

No, no, not such a juggins [03]  was A. Quarterman. In all these adventures, in the interests of veracity one of the party must be killed at least.

[03]  A term much in vogue among the bloods of Ipecacuanha Land, signifying “a man of little experience.” We should say “fool” or “silly fellow.”

If he is lucky enough to escape the hot pot, he may meet his end at the hands — that is the feet — of a rogue elephant, or swell visibly and die in great agony from a poisoned arrow. Possibly he may be thrown into the crater of a volcano by the local priest to appease the gods, or be let down gently in a rough and tumble with a jaguar, but killed he must be. It was clear if I went alone I must die in the interests of truth.

In spite of my abstract love of veracity I must say I did not like the idea. I did not feel prepared to make this sacrifice in the cause of Truth, possibly it was Worldly in me to prefer Life; still, Society, even Modern Society, has its charms, and the view I have always taken of existence has been a roseate, not to say a Pink ’un. To expect me to leave this Vanity Fair so soon was to ask me for too great a sacrifice, and one which I felt but little disposed to make entirely off my own Bat. So I determined to give myself a chance at short odds by surrounding myself with some trusty companions on my voyage out.

Sir Harry and Captain Noegood, late of R.H.M., were my fellow travellers. Their acquaintance I made in the following manner: When we had been some days at sea I appeared at dinner for the first time. Sir Harry and Captain Noegood were opposite me. The Captain and I got on to sporting stories; I led off with my famous Tiger story. (It is a good one, though I say it who should not.) The Captain promptly trumped it with an anecdote about an anaconda. “Ah!” remarked someone, “Quarterman is the chap for snake stories, he is such an agreeable rattle.”

Sir Harry, who had sat quite quiet through the first three courses, at the mention of snakes opened his mouth and started — for the leeward port-hole — returning somewhat pale.

“Excuse me,” he said.

“Not at all,” I replied.

Speaking in a husky voice, he asked: “Is your name Quarterman?”

I said it was.

He muttered into his beard. A nasty trick I never could cure him of.

During dinner Sir Harry made no further remark, except to refuse, with some asperity, a lobster mayonnaise, obviously tinned. After dinner he came up and asked me if I would come into his cabin and smoke a pipe. I accepted his invitation, but noticed he did not indulge in the fragrant herb himself. [04]

[04]  Note by Editor: Good.

Sir Harry looked like a Dane, and was certainly stout; as he put it, he had a fine presence. I think I have mentioned his habit of muttering in his beard. Captain Noegood was a half-pay Captain, late of H.M. Royal Horse Marines, and always wore dress clothes in the evening, a circumstance which — (but I am anticipating).

In the smoking-room I told them the story of Don Noséy. How he had left Notatall a few years back to search for the visionary treasures of the Great King. How, long after, he staggered back, a strong man broken-down, and died in my arms; babbling of a strange land where striped giraffes sported with spotted elephants, and crying for “wiskaye” (a drug of great potency, only known in these distant regions, from which he had escaped to die).

Sir Harry was visibly affected. Throwing a broiled bone at my head (an old Danish custom — blood will show — strange, but true), he asked in a quivering voice:

“Have you ever been at Wotabanga!” I had. I could not deny it.

“You met my brother?” he continued. “My elder brother,” he said, with a sigh which betrayed the warm heart which beat under that Danish exterior. “Years ago, in a moment of temporary but unpardonable irritation, I kicked him down the front staircase. He left the country somewhat hurriedly in a bath chair, and has not been heard of since. The title and estates I have assumed; but does he live?” Here he sighed again.

My generous nature was touched. “We will seek him together,” I cried, “on our way to the boundless treasures.”

“Done with you,” said Sir Harry, “and Noegood shall come, too.” I hesitated.

“You are not half a man,” he said.

“Quarterman is my name,” was my dignified reproof.

“I was wrong; your pardon!”

“Granted. But there is one question I must ask before admitting Captain Noegood as a partner in our enterprise.”

“Just so,” said Sir Harry; “only fair.”

I looked at Noegood and asked him: “Have you false teeth?” He turned pale. “Have you false teeth?” I repeated sternly, “and will they work with a snap?”

“I have; they will!” he cried, and leaning his head on the table, burst into bitter tears.

It turned out I had unwittingly alluded to a painful incident in the gallant Captain’s career. One of the smartest officers in the Royal Horse Marines (whose confiding nature, he afterwards told me, was grossly exaggerated), he had been retired on half-pay. The First Lord at the time had been reading the subject of Mayhem in a second-hand copy of “The Student’s Blackstone,” which he had borrowed from his secretary, and discovered that a front tooth was a fighting member. A man of action, he insisted at once on all the officers in Her Majesty’s Navy being examined by a dentist. Noegood, who had not had a tooth in his head for years, procured a perfect set, regardless of expense. It was of no avail. He was compulsorily retired, and the Admiralty deducted the price of the set (they had been obtained on credit) from his first year’s pension.

“He shall come,” I decided. At this he brisked up.

“Had that Don Noséy anything to leave?” he asked.

“He made me his heir,” I answered. “I paid legacy duty on two unreceipted bills, a county court summons, and this strange document.” Here I showed them the document which Don Noséy had brought back from his fatal journey. We joined hands, and spent the rest of the night in endeavouring to decipher what we hoped would prove the sure, the Bradshaw Guide of our great expedition.

CHAPTER II

PREPARATIONS FOR OUR JOURNEY — UMBUGS ENTERS OUR SERVICE — UNHAPPY ENDS OF BOSS AND JOSS — OUR START

HE  REMAINDER of our voyage passed very quickly, as our time was fully occupied in discussing our plans. We soon came to terms. Of course the treasure hunt was my own venture, but the elder brother was an extra. After a little explanation Sir Harry quite saw this, and fell in with my suggestion of £5 down and expenses. It was agreed that any treasure we found should be divided equally. If our expedition proved the success we hoped it would, we determined to work the affair as a limited liability company. It was understood I was to have the refusal of the post of secretary, as being to a great extent the originator of the scheme. We decided, after some consultation, on taking no firearms. Armed as we were, they would be quite superfluous, besides which, I never was much of a marksman. Of course Sir Harry and Captain Noegood might be dead shots, but they agreed with me on this point with suspicious alacrity.

On reaching Notatall we landed in a surf-boat. On the way to the shore Sir Harry insisted on finishing a case of champagne, which had been sent out as a present to the Governor, on the ground that he hated waste, and that the bottles were sure to get broken on passing the bar — “a thing,” he added, “I never once did without taking a drink.” Sir Harry seemed a sensible sort of chap. On landing, our baggage was taken up the town in a “caléga,” which is not unlike a Cuban “volanté,” but which could not possibly be mistaken for a Victoria hansom. As for our weapons of defence, I cannot do better than put down here a list of those we finally selected.

Catalogued briefly, they were as follows:

1.   My wig and cork-leg (with patent spring).

2.   My eye-glass (subsequently given to Umbugs).

3.   Captain Noegood’s teeth.

4.   One big bag of buns (of which more anon).

5.   One pocket almanac.

This was our total armament. To conciliate the natives we included in our baggage:

1.   The complete insignia of the Primrose League.

2.   A portrait of Mrs. Langtry in the act of preferring Pears’ Soap to any other. Bought a bargain from the interior of a Peckham bus.

3.   One tall hat, white with black band; one rabbit to be brought out of ditto; one omelette to be cooked in ditto; a disappearing lady; three thimbles and a pea.

Besides these, one big bag (extra size) for diamonds, to be given us by the savage king, and treasure generally. As provender we provided one Strasbourg pie, a tin of dog biscuits (for our native retinue) and a dozen of old brandy.

Our entourage consisted of two natives and Umbugs. The two natives I may dispose of at once, and save the reader a lot of bother. We had to engage them to be killed on the way and provide incident. We called them Boss and Joss — I do not know why, unless from the fact that these happened to be their names.

Poor Boss! his was a sad end. A wild elephant trod on him inadvertently. He was frightfully crushed. The intelligent beast was much upset at the contretémps — a pure accident — and showed very good feeling at the funeral.

Mem. by Artist: I have made the elephant sit upon him, as it is more funny.
Mem. by Me: Stick to the text. Remember this is a serious book, and don’t sacrifice Truth to Fun.

Joss had his head bitten off by a lion. He was certainly unfortunate. The lion happened to be an animal of ambitious mind, and was desirous of obtaining a berth as a performing lion in a travelling circus, with a tamer interviewed in the Pall Mall. He must have worked hard at it, for he was letter perfect, except in the one scene, where the tamer puts his head in the mouth of the king of beasts. This situation the latter would rehearse with Joss. To this day I believe he only forgot his part, and meant poor Joss no ill. He seemed to feel it almost as much as the elephant, and — indeed he seemed aware it was the least he could do — spared us all anxiety about the funeral.

Umbugs was a man of very different stamp. He was a magnificent Zulu. Reserved until he came out of his shell, he might have seemed too large to be a good native, and though of superb courage was never a roisterer. Before consenting to enter our service he asked where we were bound for. On being told, he gave a wild laugh. We asked what this meant. In answer he made a reply we could not quite catch, but which sounded something like—

“No matter! a time will come.”

This rather bored us. He also annoyed Sir Harry by calling him Incubus and Jumbo (the same thing in different tongues). Poor Sir Harry, I think I mentioned, had a presence.

Then he cried:

“I like pale faces, I will come with you, I know their ways, I have seen their cities. After an ephemeral success as corner man in a wandering troupe of Christy Minstrels, did I not perform as one of a Zulu family in the palace of ten thousand lights? Do I not still correspond with a black-eyed houri who kept a scent stall?” (Here he sighed.)

Captain Noegood was touched.

“I like your looks,” said Sir Harry, who had decided on taking Umbugs’ remarks as a compliment. “We will engage you.”

“Thanks you, White Elephant,” said Umbugs.

This was carrying a joke too far. Sir Harry frowned, and looked a Dane all over. The Captain and I would not encourage Umbugs. On the whole I am not sorry we engaged him. He seemed a strong beast, and if he became troublesome we could always lose him in the desert.

The day is fixed for our departure. Sir Harry prepares for the journey by teaching Umbugs double dummy, with the help of some popular manuals of the game of short whist. When I remonstrate with him on the ground that I never heard of travellers playing double dummy in a desert, he asks somewhat tartly:

“What are we to do in the evenings?” and goes on to say: “If we meet the savages, don’t you know, the Clay and Cavendish will come in handy for the pipe of peace.”

Umbugs laughs; he is becoming quite a sycophant. If Sir Harry is going to turn everything into ridicule, we had better give the whole thing up. When he is not playing double dummy, he takes the air on a tricycle.

We have one great disappointment. At the last moment our disappearing lady threw up her engagement and declined to come. Most annoying, as I cannot get the hat trick to go quite smoothly. Captain Noegood is quite upset. Perhaps it is as well, these sailors are so susceptible. If we were not so pressed for time we might get an injunction from the Vice Chancellor.

By the way, I hope these treasures are all right. Curiously enough, everyone here seems to know the legend, and is immensely interested on hearing that we are going in search of them. We are quite the lions of the place. But these natives show their interest in such an odd way. I was chatting on the subject today with six of the most intelligent. They all made guttural sounds, and put one finger on the side of the nose. I am told it is a custom of the country, and I make every allowance, but I find it rather irritating.

At last we are off. The entire town turns out to see the start. The church-bells ring and the bands are playing. Preparations are being made for fireworks in the evening and general rejoicings. Very gratifying.

Captain Noegood arrives at the trysting place in a hansom. He won’t walk a yard further than he can help. These sailors are so lazy. He arrives rather late, as he sat up all night pressing his dress clothes and oiling the snap of his teeth.

Sir Harry rides up on a tricycle which he has chartered by the hour. He is so pleased with it that he decides, just before starting, to buy the machine on the hire system, and ride across the desert on it. The natives are delighted. Umbugs leads the way, and at last we are started on the great journey which was to end so strangely for us all.

CHAPTER III

OUR JOURNEY ACROSS THE GREAT DESERT — STARVATION — THIRST — THE GIRAFFE — THE BUFFALO — THE BEAR

OR  DAYS our journey resolves itself into a sort of go as-you-please contest across the desert, with no gate-money and a very vague prospect of prizes.

Noegood is not a good walker. About once every ten minutes he says, “if it is very much further he really must go back in a cab.”

Our native contingent are much pleased with Sir Harry’s tricycle. It leads to unpleasantness in the end. Sir Harry is so selfish. Noegood suggests his giving him a lift. Sir Harry answers tetchily that it’s not a sociable, but offers to sublet it at the usual rate per hour. Noegood refuses in a huff. He tells me in confidence that he never thought much of “Wheelers,” and as to Sir Harry, if he goes on like this it would do him good to send him to Coventry. “And the machine too,” I suggest. It had suffered a good deal over the hills.

In the evening Captain Noegood dresses for dinner. Sir Harry wins at double dummy from Umbugs.

We suffer a good deal from insects, especially owning to the frequent presence of the dreadful “Tsetse” fly. Umbugs reassures us by saying its bite is fatal to everything except donkeys.

“Lucky for you chappies,” observes Noegood.

Sir Harry and I ignore him, it is the only way.

In killing these insects with the flat palm the natives display great dexterity, but poor Joss presumed upon his position in selecting Sir Harry’s waistcoat for the feat. He said it saved his life, but our cycling friend did not like it.

After about a week of this I find the following entries in my diary:

Monday.

Tired out. Food, too, running very short. We have come down to our last dog biscuit. Sir Harry says fasting is all very well, but he prefers doing it on salt-fish and plenty of pancakes, but then he is so greedy. Captain Noegood says if one must fast, give him a first-floor room in a hotel with a large plate for collections. Visitors give what they please.

This scarcity of provisions is really becoming serious. We dine off the covering of the Strasbourg pie. The natives eye Sir Harry curiously. Noegood dresses for dinner and wears a white waistcoat. More double dummy between Sir Harry and Umbugs. The latter, who is becoming quite a proficient, wants to scalp his dummy for not seeing his call for trumps.

Sir Harry pacifies him.

Tuesday.

Finished all our provisions. We all have robust appetites.

What is to be done? Captain Noegood says, Why not eat the entries in my diary? I find he means “ongtrays.” These sailors are such funny dogs.

In spite of my entreaties, they will breakfast off the rabbit which I was keeping for my hat trick. Very annoying, just as I was getting it to go so well. Still, it barely goes round. Things are becoming serious. We all take in our clothes. Umbugs tightens his belt — it is his clothes.

We are saved, and by Noegood. The gallant captain met a giraffe and wrung its neck, after a spirited contest. “It was neck or nothing,” he says quaintly.

Here occurs the lamented death of Boss.

Captain Noegood dresses for dinner, and leaving off his white waistcoat, wears a black tie. We dine off the giraffe and finish the old brandy. We make quite a night of it. After dinner they would have speeches. When “The Queen” had been drunk in silence, Captain Noegood insists on proposing “The Ladies.”

Here the diary becomes somewhat illegible.

Wednesday.

Have we been saved from starvation only to die of thirst? I may here note a curious effect produced by the rarified air of the desert — our heads feel twice their natural size. Sir Harry says giraffe never did agree with him.

Noegood suffers least, as he takes the precaution of rising early and drinking the dew [05]  collected with great difficulty for our morning bath. We stagger on through the weary day. Sir Harry becomes misanthropical. Noegood calls him “stout and bitter,” which does not improve matters.

[05]  Note by Me: “Mountain dew” was a weakness of Noegood’s.

Here occurred the sad demise of Joss.

Noegood dresses under a cypress tree, and wears crape round his sleeve. Umbugs remarks pleasantly that if we do not find water before tomorrow we shall all be corpses. Umbugs is becoming a bore.

Sir Harry is too upset to play double dummy; he asks to be buried quietly. No cards.

Thursday.

Saved! saved! Umbugs is an ass. We find drink, and plenty of it, just below the great Sherbet Mountain, but only just in time. “If I had not got it just then,” says Noegood, “I should have left this party and gone over to the majority — a ‘split’ in time saves nine.” We refresh and congratulate each other on our escape.

Sir Harry and Umbugs return to double dummy. They are quite inveterate. Sir Harry promises to propose Umbugs for the Portland on his return. Umbugs is much flattered.

By the way, poor Sir Harry had a narrow shave later on in the day. A wild buffalo chased him on his tricycle. Noegood was delighted. Sir Harry held his own very fairly on the flat, but on coming to a hill, abandoned the tricycle and took to a tree. The infuriated beast attacked the tricycle wildly, and perished miserably in the machinery. “A close thing,” said Sir Harry, sliding down his tree, “he very nearly laid another buffer low,” pointing to the mangled remains of the bull. The carcase came in very well for lunch, but the tricycle was never fit for anything afterwards, and we had, much to Sir Harry’s regret, to leave it behind.

At lunch, we had a curious adventure. We selected a cool-looking cave for the meal, and were just enjoying a postprandial cigarette with our coffee, when we became aware of a presence, a black, awful presence, with a gleaming eye. [06]

[06]  Note by Capt. Noegood: “And claws; you did not get them, I did.”

Our nerves were not very strong; we had never really got over that giraffe dinner. When we had written to the Field our time for the mile “sprint” — it did beat record, but that is neither here nor there — we made up our minds it could only be a bear.

“I must go back,” suddenly cried Sir Harry.

“Why?” said Noegood, who had got off badly at the start, and did not see it.

“Possibly that thing may be my brother,” was the rejoinder, “he was always such a bear.”

A grisly jest, we all agreed. The bear, however, proved excellent eating — (my buns finished him, I had concealed them for this emergency) — and Noegood carefully potted his grease for future use. These sailors think so much of their personal appearance.

A strange thing now happened — one indeed of the strangest of our many strange adventures.

CHAPTER IV

WE FIND KING SOLOMON’S ROAD — THE SAVAGES FIND US — RECEPTION BY NATIVES AND JOURNEY TO THE GREAT KING TWOSH

O  MY  READERS I may explain I have here dropped the diary, as the incidents which follow require accurately telling. We suddenly came up on what in this country would be called a sign-post. On the sign-post was the inscription:

—> To King Solomon’s Road, 1 Mile.
Nearest Route to the Treasures.

Breathless with excitement — that is, Noegood and myself, with Sir Harry it was chronic ever since the tricycle accident — we hurried on. At last we came to a broad turnpike road. Its name (we noticed it on a lamp-post) was King Solomon’s Road, S.W. We could say nothing; we were almost lost in wonderment. As for the road, I never saw engineering work like it. Straight ahead it tunnelled through the solid rock. The metropolitan subway at South Kensington is child’s play to it. On entering the tunnel we noticed its sides were covered with strange devices of female figures. Underneath those quaint designs were inscriptions in the native tongue. Some of these, with Umbugs’ aid, we succeeded in deciphering. Freely translated, they ran as follows:

KING SOLOMON’S TREASURES.

GREAT ATTRACTION!

SPECIAL HOLIDAY PROGRAMME!

Bullock Waggons run every half hour for the convenience of Visitors from the Suburbs.

NO NEW THING UNDER THE SUN?

NONSENSE!!!

SEE KING SOLOMON’S TREASURES

These devices, we afterwards learnt, were called “Postähs” in the native vernacular.

We were almost dumb with emotion. Had we at last obtained our goal after so many tries? Had we been saved from hunger and thirst only to make our success at last still more striking? These conundrums were never destined to be answered. I am thinking of getting up a competition in the advertisement columns of the daily press for the three best solutions. Umbugs was just giving them up, when we were surrounded by a party of savages. Captain Noegood, who was making his evening toilet, and struggling with his single stud (a large cat’s-eye — he says a family heirloom; but I have seen one very like it in the Burlington Arcade marked “1s. 6d., a bargain!”), was much put out at the interruption.

The savages were led by a youth who answered to the name of Scraggi. He made a wild shot at us with a spear and missed badly.

“Nil spear random,” said a wily savage, touching his elbow. He looked an old soldier. His name, we afterwards learnt, was Fairdooes. The savages held a brief consultation, apparently divided in opinion as to whether we should afford more fun by being flayed alive, or as the subjects of a spear contest with five-yards rise. The old grim savage inclined to the flaying process, but Scraggi, who, I fancy, had a point or two the better of him at the game, preferred the more sporting event.

Sir Harry met the situation by looking like a Dane. The savages did not care, in spite of the prevalence of lions in the vicinity, and said so boldly, in their uncouth tongue. But what was I doing the while? Did I quail? not I. Had I not my wig and leg (with patent spring)? Had not Noegood his teeth? Where was the eye-glass lent to Umbugs?

“We will give them a wigging,” I cried, hastily dancing on my peruke, and unscrewing my cork leg [07]  I waved it defiantly in the air. Noegood backed me up like a man. He snapped his teeth, and as a last resource took out his glass eye. (For days I had my suspicions, but he always denied it with warmth. These sailors are so vain.) As for Umbugs, he nearly put his eye out in the effort to secure his eye-glass in its place. Poor fellow, it was screwed in his left eye quite tight, and turned out to be quite superfluous after all, indeed a glass too much.

[07]  Note by Editor: Something wrong in the engraving. Quarterman has a wooden leg, not a cork one. How’s this?
Note by Me: Artist would draw a wooden one; said it was funnier. Perhaps Quarterman economised by using a substitute for the superior article over the desert.
Note by Editor: Across the desert I should have thought he would put his best leg forward. But no matter.

Our readers have guessed the result, of course. Did not Fairdooes grovel on the ground and invoke the aid of the Great Spirit? Was not Scraggi limp with terror, and though dumb with apprehension, did not his teeth chatter? Did not his followers rush headlong in a wave of panic? Were A. Quarterman a romancer, a holder of the great iron pot, as the Ipecacuanha idiom quaintly has it, I could descant for pages on the effect this demonstration of ours produced; but a Quarterman is truthful or nothing, and stern veracity bids me confess they did nothing of the kind. Scraggi barely smiled, and Fairdooes yawned behind his hand. As for their rank and file, less blasé, they went into a roar.

“No,” said Fairdooes, with a weary look about the eyes, “it won’t do; it is really too old. The first few we caught at this kind of thing caused us some surprise; then it amused us; but now it has got into the Society papers, and the game is played out.”

“Stay!” said Scraggi. “Have the pale faces — who come from over the sea” (as if we had never got over the crossing), “who roar out thunder and slay from afar — the death-dealing tubes with which the great medicine men spread their lightning and make their enemies as is a sieve?”

This I could not stand.

“Hang it all,” I said. “You call our business with the wig and teeth old (I don’t believe the leg has ever been done before), and want the old death-dealing tube swindle! Why, it’s as old as Robinson Crusoe. No savage with a grain of self-respect could stand it any longer. I had not the face to try it on you; besides which, Sir Harry, if he does look like a Dane, could not hit a haystack sitting to save his life. As for me, I have been nervous with firearms from a boy; and Noegood there, he is a naval officer, and knows from professional experience far too much about guns to stand behind one when it goes off.”

I was wrong to give way like this, but I was sorely tried, and, as it turned out, it saved our lives.

“The bald-headed old fox,” said the old savage called Fairdooes (a nice way to speak of me!), “talks wisdom; he has been merciful in his weakness, and spared us the death-dealing tubes. Shall we not be merciful in our strength and spare their lives? Still, we will rifle their pockets.” They did not find much.

“We will take them,” continued Fairdooes, “to Twosh, the great king; the bald fox, also the fat Jumbo, likewise the black dog (meaning Umbugs), not forgetting the dusty swallow with one tail.” (A reference to Noegood’s coat, not in the best of taste. It had certainly suffered on the journey, but why draw public attention to it like this?)

Sir Harry was so used to being called Jumbo by this time that for once he quite forgot to look like a Dane. As for Umbugs, he was so used to being called anything, especially by Noegood — these sailors will use such language — that black dog was rather a compliment than otherwise.

Before we started Fairdooes said, “Allow me,” with a wave of his hand: “Pale faces, Scraggi; Scraggi, Pale faces. Scraggi, son of Twosh, the King of Ipecacuanha Land, husband of a thousand wives” (Noegood looked interested, Sir Harry quailed), “terror of his tradesmen, Prince of the Blackguards, the (usually) black-eyed. I am Fairdooes,” he concluded, after this outburst.

We bowed our acknowledgements, and commenced the march along the road, through the confines of Ipecacuanha Land, to the palace of the great King Twosh.

CHAPTER V

WE ENTER IPECACUANHA LAND — OUR RECEPTION BY TWOSH THE KING

T  WILL  NOT be necessary for me to detail the incidents of our journey.

We passed several bands of natives who were travelling in the same direction as ourselves. Noegood was much struck by the women, who, as he said, for a native race are exceedingly handsome. What surprised me most was the superb air of disdain with which they eyed us, though I am bound to say Noegood’s dress clothes surprised them into betraying a little interest. They could not have shown greater self-possession if they had been the habitués of a fashionable drawing-room, as, indeed, from the scantiness of their attire, might have been the case.

Fairdooes put us up for the night in a very decent hut.

“A little food shall be brought you,” he suggested. “Two or three oxen, a few sheep,” he added, diffidently.

“This is how I like to be treated,” said Sir Harry, “they are going to serve us well.”

When the savages found we ate and drank like other people, only rather more so — that is Sir Harry — we got on much better together; their opinion of us seemed to improve. We insisted on Fairdooes and Scraggi joining us, and kept it up quite late. They were much puzzled at our smoking. Scraggi would have been wiser not to have tried that cigar. I warned him, but he would do it. When we awoke the next morning it was to find the sun high in the heavens.

Fairdooes, who had been up for hours, found us in bed. He announced that Twosh the king would give us audience.

Sir Harry answers rudely that he is not going to hurry himself for Twosh or any other beastly savage, and desires to be called again in two hours’ time.

Somehow or other we don’t feel up to much breakfast, but after a pipe we feel better and declare ourselves ready to face Twosh himself. Fairdooes led the way, and after a short walk we are ushered into the great presence.

Twosh was an enormous man, nearly as large as Sir Harry, and with perhaps the most repulsive face ever seen. He looked every inch, and there were a great many of them, a savage king. He was made up very carefully for the part. His whole expression was cruel and sensual to a degree. I only discovered later how under that mask of savagery lurked — but I am anticipating. Twosh the king did not display much interest in us. Fairdooes introduced us. Scraggi had not yet recovered the effects of the cigar.

“I suppose they are from the stars,” said Twosh, with an air of unmistakable ennui.

“’Pon my word,” said Fairdooes, “I did not think it worth an inquiry. I took it for granted, but perhaps as a matter of form—”

“They look like a strolling company,” said Twosh, yawning.

“No, sire,” I said, “for we are all stars. The great king in his wisdom has guessed the place from whence we came.”

“For heaven’s sake,” whispered Sir Harry, hurriedly, “think of what you are saying. Don’t put that in his head; he will be putting on the black cap in a minute!”

Taking no notice of the interruption, I continued:

“We do come from the stars; our address is on the bottles. Three star Martel is our constellation.” I had kept a few of the empty ones. One can never tell what may come useful on these occasions.

Noegood’s dress coat here caught Twosh’s eye.

“Who is he that hath two eyes in his head and one in his ‘Tûm Tûm?’” (a native expression for the third button of the waistcoat).

This was Noegood’s single cat’s-eye.

“Hang it,” said Noegood. “None of your chaff; it’s a very good stud.”

We trembled at this outburst. What its consequence might have been, who can tell? Luckily at this point one of Twosh’s guards sneezed.

“Bless you!” said Twosh; then suddenly recollecting that he was a savage potentate, he turned on his heel in a paroxysm of rage, and he cried, in a voice hoarse with passion: “What! Will you dishonour your father in the eyes of strangers who come from the stars? I’ll show you if I am to be sneezed at.”

“It was by chance, O son of cow,” was the low reply.

“Oh I’m a son of cow now, am I? I’ll heifer word with you.”

When the remains of the sneezer had been removed in a waste-paper basket, Twosh turned to us and said, in a mild tone: “You will come to our annual witch hunt this day week?”

We replied we should be only too pleased.

“It is not bad fun sometimes,” said he in a deprecating manner. “I’ll see you have a good place.”

Here Twosh signified our audience was at an end, and withdrew, entering his hut in a curiously dejected manner.

The most interesting event which calls for notice in the next few days is a tremendous row between Scraggi and Noegood.

At the Hall of Varieties, one of the favourite places of amusement in the ———, Noegood would encore Scraggi’s particular friend in the most marked manner, and insisted on taking her out to supper after the performance. Fullarder was a nice girl, for such was her name, but what could it end in but a row? These sailors have no discretion where a petticoat is concerned — indeed, in this affair Noegood had not even that excuse, for Fullarder’s costume was scanty. Scraggi got the worst of it, and did not take it well. He retired to put on a clean collar, muttering, “Wait for the witch hunt.” What can he mean?

The Society papers are full of the “fracas,” as they call it. Twosh, who in private life is a stickler for the proprieties, is furious.

On inquiry I have found out all about the witch hunt. It seems to be an interesting ceremony. Umbugs is my informant; he keeps us posted in all the news, and seems to know his way about here wonderfully. Still, I fear we must get rid of him soon; he is becoming proud, and declined the other day to varnish Sir Harry’s boots.

The ceremony of the witch hunt, as explained to me by Umbugs, seems to be this:

In theory, the witch hunters scent out the evil doers, those who are ill disposed towards Twosh, or who have killed too many mothers-in-law lately, and they are put out of the way for their country’s good.

In practice, what happens is this:Twosh keeps a list of all those to whom he owes money, and stands in with the witch finders. They, instructed by Twosh, denounce them all as witches. The witches are first killed, and then boiled.

“But,” I asked, “if this obtains, why does anyone lend money to Twosh?” Umbugs smiled in a pitying manner.

“Little do you reck of the wiles of the great king; he also keeps a list of all who have refused to lend him money. These are first boiled, and then killed!”

As regards ourselves, it turns out that Twosh’s plan is this — Scraggi put him up to it — to get us on his list, have us denounced, including Umbugs, as witches, and put us comfortably out of the way. Such was the fiendish plan, devised by the ingenuity of Scraggi. He never did like us; I fear he harboured animosity about that cigar. Scraggi, with Noegood removed from the path, hopes to regain Fullarder’s affections. Poor Noegood, though his feelings might be at boiling point, as a rival — to put it vulgarly — would have gone to pot.

On hearing of this plot against our lives, Sir Harry revokes at double dummy. Noegood becomes very profane, but declares nothing will induce him to give up his “tart.” What this means, I do not know. It is an Ipecacuanha expression, which Noegood has picked up. No one will tell me its meaning; they seem afraid to explain. Noegood is also depressed at having to wear dress clothes all day (they won’t let him take them off), “like a beastly waiter,” as he says.

In vain we rack our brains for a plan to circumvent our enemies. Noegood suggests several, the most feasible being to get Twosh to cash a cheque, and so have an interest in keeping us alive. This is ingenious in itself, but depends too much for its success on the credulity of Twosh. I suggest several plans, but feel they are not of much use.

“I have it!” suddenly cries Sir Harry. “‘Eclipse first, the rest nowhere.’ Here is the plan to save us.”

We were dumbfounded at his ingenuity.

“You have an almanac, Quarterman?” Of course I had.

“Where is the use,” he continued, “of travelling in savage climes if one cannot get up an eclipse to order? Just see if there is not one about due.”

I hurriedly turned over the pages of the almanac (how lucky that I had brought one!), and, oddly enough, at the exact time the witches’ hunt was announced to commence, we found the sun would be eclipsed. Saved! saved!!

Our course was now clear. We must wait in patience for the witch hunt, and frighten old Twosh out of his life with the eclipse, then make our own terms — none too cheap — and depart in triumph. As for the treasure, I had had about enough of treasure-seeking. Besides, we are not going to let old Twosh off any too easily.

Umbugs seems strangely excited at our plan. I cannot quite make him out; his conduct has been very odd the last few days. In one day I caught him three times throwing off his girdle (very embarrassing, as he hardly wears anything else), and saying, striking an attitude as he does so — “At last the time has come, I am the rightful something or other,” I could not quite make out what.

When I remonstrate with him on this extraordinary behaviour he laughs shrilly, “He he!” and says he is recalling the days of “Auld lang syne.”

He is degenerating into a sort of Merry Andrew. We must certainly get rid of him.

Noegood is enthusiastic about the eclipse, he thinks he sees his way to settling Scraggi’s pretensions forever. I am not quite so sanguine. Those savages do not seem up to the Christmas book form — still I hope there will be no hitch about the eclipse.

CHAPTER VI

THE WITCH HUNT — THE ECLIPSE — ITS EFFECT ON TWOSH THE KING — REMARKABLE CONDUCT OF UMBUGS — SAVED! SAVED!

HE  FEW  DAYS remaining before the witch hunt we spent in resting and talking over the situation, which was sufficiently exciting. On the morning of the day itself, Noegood devoted all his time to preparing a glossary of nautical expressions suitable for use on the occasion of an eclipse. “It will make the thing go better,” he explains. So engrossed is he that he actually forgot Fullarder for the moment. Sir Harry practises his most Danish expression.

Just after we had finished dinner, Fairdooes arrived clad in full war toggery, and accompanied by a guard of twenty men to escort us to the performances. He very thoughtfully provides us with three suits of black armour for the night, at what he calls a nominal charge.

“Well,” said Sir Harry, as he struggled into his several sizes too small, “we must expect to be black-mailed.” Mine was a shocking fit, so was Noegood’s, who said he really could not be seen in such a thing, and wore his suit under his dress clothes. On arriving at the great kraal where we had previously been interviewed by the king we found the seats very fairly occupied. Curiously enough, in the front rows there seemed plenty of room. In the front row of all, where Twosh had very kindly kept seats for us, there was scarcely anyone. I suppose they do not wish to intrude on our privacy. Those savages, simple children of the desert though they be, have sometimes wonderful tact. So unassuming is their demeanour that each one tries to thrust his neighbour into a more prominent place than himself. How different from an English mob bent upon pleasure! That is our great fault as a nation. We are so selfish.

At last a small party enter the royal box. We make out Twosh and Scraggi. They seem in high spirits. Scraggi points at us and laughs. “You wonder why we laugh,” shouts Twosh, waving his spear; “it’s because we assegai.”

After the overture, composed of the popular airs of the day, in which all the audience join, the performance opens. I may here mention that the leading witch hunter was Gargle, a lady of uncertain age to a century or two, and with one eye, which she kept well on us. She bore us no good-will owing to an unfortunate mistake of Sir Harry’s. He took her for a monkey when first they met, and offered her nuts. She had a fit in consequence, and never forgave this slur on her personal attractions.

The eyes of the entire audience were centred on her movements. There was a breathless silence. A pin, had such things been invented in Ipecacuanha Land, might have been heard to drop. Suddenly, with a wild shriek she spun into the air, and waltzing round hissed forth:

“Ho! ho! I’ll show them who’s which!”

The utmost agitation prevailed. In the excitement of the moment, everyone tried to get behind someone else; and a well-known bill discounter hid himself under his seat. Sir Harry could hardly keep his place, so anxious was he to go and see what time the carriages were ordered for.

“Sit still,” I implored him; “our lives may depend upon it.”

When three money-lenders, the court tailor, and a sheriff’s officer had been dropped in the cauldron, Gargle fixed her eye steadily on Sir Harry, and began to waltz towards us.

Twosh clapped loudly, and Scraggi nearly fell off his seat with delight. At last she made a dead point at us. It was obviously a put up thing.

“Brava! brava!” cried Twosh from his throne. “You must die at once.”

“Why-O-king?” I asked, in my agitation running the words into one.

“Woking comes after,” he explained, “but you must die, it is the 9th rule of the game; besides.” he continued, with a nasty chuckle, “if you lose your lives you can star one.”

Here he beckoned to the executioners to advance, and added in a gentle tone:

“Boiling is a quick death; they say the lobsters rather like it.”

The executioners, who had just been taking a short rest, received their cue from Twosh, and advanced towards the spot. Now or never was the time for my hazard.

“Hold!” I cried, “you shall yet be baulked. Though an easy shot you will break down, Attempt to run in and we will put out the sun and plunge the table land in darkness.”

Our great coup was played. A groan arose from the onlookers. Twosh the king gave a wild yell of anguish and fell off his throne and lay moaning piteously in the dust.

“Oh, spare me that I spare me that I be merciful! Anything — anything but that ancient fraud!” he just found strength to gasp.

His agony moved me, but I was firm.

“I am sorry for you, Twosh,” I said; “you have not treated us well, still I am sorry for you. You can’t think it gives me any pleasure to rake up this venerable device again; but there is no help for it; it must be done. You see this is a story of adventures among savages, and we have reached a point where the public expect an eclipse. They will have it; it’s not my fault.”

Twosh’s form quivered convulsively on the ground.

“Well, look here,” I said, “I do not want to be hard on you. The public expects an eclipse, and won’t be disappointed; but I’ll tell you what I’ll do: put off the whole show for six months and I’ll make it the moon this time.”

Twosh, with a great effort of will, dragged himself from his recumbent position to the steps of the throne, and clinging to them for support, made answer in a dull, mechanical voice:

“Sooner, aye sooner than submit to another eclipse at the hands of the strangers who come from the stars, will I leave this throne, never to return. My land, my wives” (I thought of Mrs. Quarterman and blushed), “my people, take them all. Do what you will with them. I will flee, a homeless wanderer upon the face of the earth. I will take a cheap ticket to England, where the sun never shines, and the thing can’t be done — if only, only you will be merciful and spare me this.”

I could hardly speak from emotion. His frenzy was painful to witness.

“We will! You shall!” cried a strong voice at my elbow, and Umbugs strode into the arena with my eye-glass firmly fixed in his eye, and throwing off his girdle, he cried in a loud voice:

“Ha! ha? the time has come at last. I am Umbugs, the rightful king of Ipecacuanha Land. Please observe the mark; without this none are genuine.”

“You are! you are!” cried Fairdooes, raising his spear; “have I not taken him across my knee as a boy? Shall I strike less hard now for him and freedom?”

The excitement was tremendous. Twosh did not like it at first, but Umbugs had the army with him to a man. They had not forgotten the fate of the sneezer, and they all suffered from chronic influenza. Umbugs told me afterwards that such was the state of terrorism they lived in, that all their spare pay was spent in Alkaram.

Umbugs mounted the throne amidst acclamations. Fairdooes, who had egged him on to throw over the hard yoke of Twosh’s rule, came in for quite an ovation.

It is very lucky that I did not discharge Umbugs from our service, and I do not regret, as things have turned out, having promised him a present at Christmas.

Sir Harry looked a little uneasy as he remembered double dummy, and thought of the possibility of future witch hunts, but Noegood was delighted, and went to look for Fullarder.

The almanac was wrong, which was fortunate for Umbugs; as, if the eclipse had come on after all, Twosh, who was rather annoyed at being taken up so quickly, would have cried off the bargain.

Umbugs occupied the throne with much dignity, though his crown was a little too large, and surveyed the scene with an easy grace, as if he had never varnished boots in his life. Twosh, who began to think he had made rather an ass of himself, had still a card to play.

When the enthusiasm had subsided, and a deaf man in the gallery, who had totally misunderstood the situation, and would go on demanding “Three cheers for Twosh!” had been ejected, Twosh advanced towards the throne and made a low obeisance.

“Has thy servant leave to speak?”

“By all means,” said Umbugs, with affability.

“Well, look here,” continued Twosh, “as a savage king I can’t give the whole thing up without a fight.”

“No, no!” said Umbugs, “certainly not. Who will you take on?”

“Jumbo for choice,” said Twosh.

“Capital,” said Umbugs, who never quite hit it off with Sir Harry. Was it the double dummy or the boots? “I’ll see fair play.”

The effect of all this on poor Sir Harry was dreadful; he quailed visibly, and for days was unable to look like a Dane. It was no good, try as he would, he could not get out of it.

“Queensberry rules?” said Umbugs.

“Of course,” said Twosh.

Umbugs was delighted at the idea, and evinced the greatest interest in the whole matter.

“A good fight, and no quarter man, shall be our motto,” he said, jestingly, to Sir Harry, who smiled a sickly smile.

The stakes were deposited with the editor of the local sporting paper and a day was fixed. I wonder how it will end? As it was getting late, we made our salaam to Umbugs, which he scarcely acknowledged — I hope his position is not spoiling him — and withdrew to our hut. Sir Harry was dreadfully low spirited and declined to be cheered up.

CHAPTER VII

THE BATTLE — THE CHARGE OF THE BLUES — CONFESSIONS OF TWOSH

IR  HARRY, perhaps I wronged him, is quite brightening up. He has been in strict training for days. Noegood does his best to keep up Sir Harry’s spirits by constantly humming to him the national war anthem of the country. It is a wild, barbaric air, with a very stirring chorus, which the natives always sing as they advance to battle. The words are very curious, written by the court laureate. They tell how one Tômm Kinns, a native of Beth Nalgréne, a savage and outlying district, did fall on and beat in hot blood a fellow savage upon some trivial pretext.

The chorus roughly translated runs somewhat as follows:

“Two lovely black eyes,

Oh, what a surprise!”

Though in English it is impossible to give any idea of the fire of the original.

I shall scarcely be believed when I say so popular is the air that if a party of natives are gathered together, they will often repeat the chorus for hours at a time with the utmost contentment, and require no other form of entertainment.

To our civilised minds such simplicity seems incredible, yet any traveller in the neighbourhood would corroborate me in this statement.

The contemplated set-to between Twosh and Sir Harry excites much interest in sporting circles. At first Twosh is made a warm favourite, but Sir Harry’s training affects the market and he comes up to short odds. Twosh’s partisans are trying to hedge their money. Twosh does not stand his preparation well, he declines to train but has a box every evening at the “Varieties.” Still he carries my money; I have not much faith in Sir Harry.

The details of the fight cause us great anxiety. Umbugs says very fairly he cannot appear in the matter openly. Several places have been suggested as the field of battle, but have to be abandoned at the last moment owing to the police getting wind of them. Sir Harry professes to be annoyed at this, and says he can’t think how these things get about. I fear we shall have to cross the water after all to bring it off. This would interfere sadly with Sir Harry’s training, as he is such a bad sailor.

At last a place has been selected where we shall be free from interference. The venue — it is an open secret — is fixed in the private park of a popular nobleman of sporting proclivities. The police have been drawn off on a false scent by a rumour spread by Scraggi that a body of Socialists had resolved to attend church with the object of encoring the commination service. All is now arranged. Still, the very strictest secrecy has to be observed.

On the morning of the fight, Twosh leaves in a furniture van driven by Scraggi. Sir Harry, who has just been reading his “Pickwick” in the Jubilee edition, prefers a pianoforte “without works,” and breathes through the legs, which are hollow. We arrive on the ground all safe, but Sir Harry is rather short of breath. Twosh is somewhat late, as he had to make a detour to avoid suspicion. Umbugs is not here, which seems odd after the interest he displayed in the proceedings. Perhaps he thinks it more judicious not to be mixed up in the matter.

Noegood is Sir Harry’s second. Twosh is looked after by Scraggi. I am appointed time keeper and referee.

Noegood is actually here without Fullarder. She wanted to come, but he would not bring her, on the ground that a prize fight was a degrading spectacle, and would do her no good.

The ring is roped off; the betting at the start is quoted at 7 to 4, Twosh taken and wanted. All being ready, Twosh and Sir Harry advance into the middle of the ring and shake hands.

The fight begins.

After a little preliminary sparring, Twosh makes a rush at Sir Harry and fobs with his right. Sir Harry fibs neatly with his left, and throws himself flat on the ground; Twosh falls over him, and pitches violently on his head.

“Time, gentlemen, time,” cries Noegood; “end of first round.” Sir Harry firm at 7 to 4.

Twosh seems much shaken. As the official report puts it — “he came a nasty one on his knowledge box.”

I must try and get out on Sir Harry. But what is this I see advancing over the brow of the hill? Can it be — it is, it is — the famous Blues! This splendid force, the pride and glory of Ipecacuanha Land, advances shoulder to shoulder at a brisk double pace. They come on in their striking uniform — in highlows and helmets, and white Berlin gloves, their buttons gleaming in the sun, waving their “Trunshons” (a kind of staff) the while. Anon there rises from the serried phalanx a murmur, as the whispering of the sea, and we hear strange cries of:

“I nose yer.”  “Come, move on there.”  “Ah! would you?”  “What, agen!”

We were taken before Umbugs, who said that in the whole of his experience he had never seen a worse case, and had no alternative but to fine all concerned five shillings each, with the option of being skinned alive, and costs. The “Inspectre,” that is, the leader of the Blues, was presented with ten shillings from the poor box, as a reward for his dashing behaviour. On the whole, I was rather well out of it, as I had backed Twosh, and he fell rather a nasty one on his head.

Sir Harry has just told me that, bearing no animosity towards Twosh, he had thought it best to give information to the police, but asks me to keep it quiet. This is why he was so cheerful, I suppose! As he seems to have a good deal of pocket money just now, I rather suspect he stood in with Umbugs, and divided the fines. The leading daily journal came out with a scathing article, headed “Latter-Day Pugilism,” and what it calls “this disreputable attempt to revive the worst traditions of the ring.”

After this adventure, we settled down to our ordinary routine life in Ipecacuanha Land. Sir Harry is reduced to practising the “Great Vienna Coup” by himself. Umbugs is as proud of double dummy as ever, but says four by honours against him five times in six hands is too much. He makes no reflections on anyone, but declines to play for the present. Umbugs is very pleased with me, as I invested him with the insignia of a knight-harbinger of the Primrose League, and promised on the payment of the usual fees to advance him to the higher grades. I fear Twosh is a little bit jealous. The way Noegood and Fullarder are going on is perfectly ridiculous. I gave Scraggi my — that is Pears’ — portrait of Mrs. Langtry; he is quite consoled and tells me in confidence Fullarder squints. Poor old Twosh comes out very well on acquaintance. He is not half a bad chap when you know him, though I must admit you have got to know him first.

Talking to me one day in confidence, he said:

“Though it may surprise you, Quarterman, my boy, I was not altogether sorry to give up my throne to Umbugs. It’s hard work always to be laying foundation-stones and opening shows, and a thankless task, too. Then the trouble and anxiety it gave me to keep up my character consistently as a savage potentate no one can ever fathom. Personally I would not hurt a fly, and have always, under an assumed name, subscribed to the “Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, but what could I do? I was not my own master. It was my rôle to be bloodthirsty, and bloodthirsty I had to be. I had to go on committing atrocities, no one regretting them more than myself, as if I revelled in the acts. There was no escape for me. The agony those witch hunts used to cause me no one would believe, and I can assure you when my forty-third wife died, and all her male relatives were tortured to death, as is the rule in the Royal House, it hardly caused me any gratification. Then look at my personal appearance,” he said, “did you ever see such a guy?”

I had to admit it was odd; still beauty is only skin deep, I suggested, to comfort him.

“That is all very fine,” he remarked, “it used not to matter. My royal position used to cover all deficiencies, but now I am no longer king, no woman will look at me with this face, and yet, let me tell you, though you may not believe it, I was not half a bad-looking chap once.” (Here he sighed.) “Of course this would not do. I had to disfigure myself. They said I did not look sensual enough. I bought a nose machine, and took lessons in grimacing from a low comedian. You see the result.

“Ah!” he continued, “it’s a thankless life is a Savage king’s, to say nothing of never being able to talk like a Christian, but having to twaddle on about pale faces and Great Spirits, besides having to live in a kraal, which is generally draughty and always uncomfortable. Ah! how often have I thought, on looking down on the trembling throng around my throne, you little reck how glad the haughty Twosh would be to change places with even the humblest of his subjects.”

The topic seemed to pain him, so I turned the conversation; but I have often thought since how little the world knows of its greatest men; how great and small, alike the sport of circumstances, are all liable to be misjudged.

I have commenced my conjuring tricks. They are very popular, especially the three thimbles and a pea. Umbugs, who has quite given up double dummy, cannot have enough of the game. I wonder if his paper is all right? Twosh takes to the conjuring wonderfully, and for a small honorarium (he is rather pressed for ready-money since his retirement) does the confederate in the gallery, and asks, “Where is the sunflower?” in the hat trick. This always brings down the house. They can’t make it out.

One day Sir Harry, whose time — now there is no more double dummy — hangs rather heavy on his hands, reminds me we have done nothing up to the present towards searching for the treasure.

“Surely,” he says, “now Umbugs is king, and Twosh is with us, the time has come for finding this treasure with their assistance!”

It does seem a good opportunity. I suggest it to Noegood, who says he will come if Fullarder is one of the party. He is really quite infatuated. Umbugs, I find, is delighted with the idea, and, like the good fellow I always thought him, says:

“Let’s go tomorrow; I will show you the way and stand the lunch.”

Are we, after all, on the eve of a great discovery, to make us rich beyond the dreams of Sam Lewis? Who can tell!

CHAPTER VIII

THE TREASURES OF KING SOLOMON

N  THE  NEXT  DAY we start for the treasures. Umbugs is more than kind, and insists on coming to show us the way. The distance is not great, but Sir Harry insists on being carried on a litter, so as to husband his strength. Besides, as he says, we must have something to bring the treasures back in. On arriving at the doors, we pay a shilling each at the turnstile (through which only one person can pass at a time), and enter. We proceed along a passage wide enough to admit of two walking abreast, and rather dark; but soon the passage becomes lighter, and in another minute we stand in perhaps the most magnificent cave ever seen. But its size was the least of the wonders of the place, for running in rows down its length were gigantic pillars of what looked like ice, but were in reality huge stalagmites. The cave is certainly splendid, but we did not come all this way to see stalagmites and stalactites, at least Sir Harry did not, and he says so audibly. The Captain and Fullarder are too well occupied to grumble at anything. Interested in geology though I am, I rather back up Sir Harry in this view.

“What!” says Umbugs; “do you desire to explore the hidden mysteries of the cave and brave its unknown perils? In your heart of hearts are ye prepared to enter the Chamber of Horrors?” . We were not going to be frightened, so we all said “yes,” though we did not quite like it. Noegood, who had seen the “Salon Parisien,” said he would go first. “Art thou coming, Fullarder?” he inquired tenderly, but his accent was dreadful; he would try and speak the native language.

“I fear, my lord,” said the girl timidly.

“Then give me the luncheon basket,” was the hasty answer. These sailors are so practical. “Nay, my lord,” was the rejoinder, “whither thou goest, there will I go also.”

Noegood did not seem altogether to like this; however, he now announced his intention of showing the way. Umbugs drew his attention to the following notice on the wall:

N.B.-IMPORTANT NOTICE
AND WARNING.

“It is suggested that none but strong-nerved persons inspect this Exhibit.”

We still declined to be frightened.

“Then,” observed Umbugs, “it will be six pence extra including catalogue.”

On the payment of this he grinned, and said, “This way, gentlemen; straight on.”

We peered before us, but there was nothing but the solid rock. Noegood looked relieved.

“Do not jest with us,” I said, sternly. “I am only going to take a rise out of it,” said Umbugs, pointing to a mass of rock. “Can any gentleman oblige me with a penny?”

We managed this amongst us.

“Observe, I drop it in the slot and the machinery works.”

As we looked again we saw a mass of stone slowly rising from the floor and vanishing into the rock above. The mass was about the size of a large door, and must have weighed nearly as much as Sir Harry. At last the great stone raised itself, and a dark hole showed in its place.

“Walk up, gentlemen, walk up,” said Umbugs; “behold the treasures of the Great King!”

Thus adjured, we entered and found ourselves in a gloomy apartment, which had been hollowed out of the mountain. This apartment was not nearly so well lighted as the ante-cave, and at the first glance all I could make out was a stone table of great length with an enormous white pyramid at its head, and life-sized figures all round it. At last my eyes grew accustomed to the light, and I saw what these things were. I admit, if Sir Harry had not caught me firmly by the collar, in about five seconds I should have been out of that cave, never to return.

As for Noegood, he swore — feebly for him — and Fullarder seized the opportunity of fainting in his arms. Only Umbugs chuckled loud and long. The sight was a ghastly one.

“What are those things?” said Noegood, pointing to the white company round the table. “And what on earth is that thing?” said Sir Harry, pointing to the white pyramid which looked as if it were crusted with snow.

At last our eyes made out the awful spectacle before us.

Around the table were the effigies of King Solomon’s seven hundred Wives and three hundred— (But stay! This is a book by a family man for family men. I must be discreet.)

The vague white form at the head of the table turned out to be an enormous pile of seven hundred wedding cakes arranged in the form of a pyramid. Above it was a scroll with an inscription in large letters. Sir Harry, who was a scholar, having been rusticated from Camford with great éclat, translated it for our benefit as follows:

“Extract from an unpublished volume of King Solomon’s Proverbs.

“What treasure hath man like a good wife and plenty of her?”

These figures, some of great beauty (Which? the wives? or ———; wild horses should not tear it from me), had become petrified from the constant droppings from the roof. The same process had welded the cakes into a solid cube.

“As if they had not been dropt onto often enough during life,” says Noegood, who was beginning to recover from his alarm. These sailors are so irreverent.

Umbugs by this time had left us on the ground that he had an important engagement, which had hitherto slipped his memory.

“Well,” said Sir Harry, “I call this a sell. Here have we come all this way, and gone through so much, to see a lot of figures, when for a little extra expense we could have done Madame Tussaud’s, and had Napoleon’s toothbrush thrown in for the money.”

Noegood seemed much interested in the specimens, greatly to Fullarder’s disgust. Forgetting for the moment that Umbugs had left us, I turned hastily round and cried: “Where are the treasures?”

I heard a hoarse laugh, and looking in the direction saw that the door had descended.

“Where are the treasures?” echoed a voice — Umbugs, without doubt. It sounded rather fluty under the door. “Aren’t seven hundred enough, to say nothing of the three hundred ———?

“Umbugs,” I interrupted, hastily, “I implore you! Remember this is a book by a family man for family men. Above all things, let us be discreet. Think of the young person of fifteen. No scandal about King Solomon.”

Now, I never could see any fun in practical joking. “Come,” I said, “a joke is a joke; but let us out.”

“Not if I nosit,” was the reply, an idiom of the country, implying a humorous negative. Sir Harry and Noegood were furious.

“Open the door!” they cried.

“I am really very sorry,” said Umbugs. “I am afraid it is impossible. You see it will only work with pennies, and I haven’t got any more.”

“Do it with a bit of slate,” suggested Noegood.

“Anyone seen tampering with the machinery is liable to a fine of £10 on conviction,” was the stern rejoinder.

We saw it all now. That beast Umbugs had planned this snare for us from the first. It was just the sort of thing he would think funny.

“Do you mean to leave us here to die?” I asked.

“Well, that was my idea,” he replied. “How does it strike you?”

At this we gave up all hope.

Umbugs seemed to think it the best joke in the world.

Sir Harry said, “Well, let’s have some lunch; it is no good wasting that, whatever happens.” He offered to divide it, but we had none of us any appetite. His never failed him.

“Stay!” said Umbugs at last. “I do not want to be hard on the pale faces” (we were pale enough, and no mistake), “who come from the stars. Have ye with you the paper ye hold of Umbugs, the great king, which ye have won with devious wiles at the wondrous double dummy, and the mystic thimbles, and the esoteric pea?” We consulted. It was robbery, but it might save our lives.

Sir Harry had three I.O.U.’s The first, for a tame elephant suitable for performance in a hippodrome. The other two, for a one-eyed tiger, sightly damaged, and the reversion of an interest in a learned pig. I, too, had various stamped papers, not unconnected with our little amusements. These we handed under the door in solemn silence.

“Have the pale faces,” continued Umbugs, “the dials which tell the time, no man knows how!”

This was extortion, but we had no choice. Sir Harry had to hand over the family turnip. It got a little injured in transit. My watch, or its ticket, the same thing, passed under the door with less difficulty. Noegood’s was only a Waterbury. Those sailors are so lucky.

“Any small change?” asked the mercenary beast. I say it advisedly.

Fourpence halfpenny in bronze was all we could manage.

“Aha!” now cried Umbugs, “I have the talisman which opens the solid rock,” and we heard a penny (our penny) drop in the slot, and the door suddenly began to raise itself. It worked on some simple balance principle. As it opened we saw Umbugs surrounded by his guard.

Our return was somewhat humiliating. I find this entry in my diary:

“No more treasure seeking for us.”

Signed:

A. QUARTERMAN.

SIR HARRY.

CAPT. NOEGOOD, late of R.H.M.

FULLARDER. Her + mark.

CHAPTER IX

WE FIND SIR HARRY’S BROTHER — SUPPRESSED EMOTION OF SIR HARRY — SCANDAL IN HIGH LIFE — INTERVENTION OF A GREAT PERSONAGE

FTER  OUR  EXPEDITION in search of the treasures of the Great King, which had ended so ignominiously, life at Ipecacuanha Land became very tedious. Umbugs turned sulky because we would not play except for ready-money, which he had not got. Was it likely, after the way he had treated us? As for Twosh he is getting too sharp, and finds out all my tricks. The only one who is contented is Noegood, who goes on shamefully with Fullarder.

We were bored to death one rainy day, when Sir Harry startled us by saying:

“There is nothing doing. Why should not we go and look for my brother?”

In the excitement of our adventures I had forgotten all about his brother, and so I firmly believe had Sir Harry himself.

“Do you mean it?” I asked.

“Certainly,” he said. I was very annoyed, and did not conceal it.

“Look here,” I said, “this is too bad. Here have I got to my last chapter but one, and you suddenly spring your long-lost brother on me. He cannot be worked in now, I cannot spare the space. You should have thought of it before; it can’t be done now.”

Sir Harry looked like a Dane as he answered:

“I have come here to find my brother, and find him I must, alive or dead.”

“Hang it,” I exclaimed, “do you expect me to write another volume to find your beastly brother? It is too much to expect; it is not reasonable.”

“You can do it shortly,” said Sir Harry, in a conciliatory manner.

“Shortly Why, look at the adventures he will have had.”

“Break his leg,” said Sir Harry, “do not mind my feelings” — he cannot have had many then — “but find him, there’s a good chap, if it’s only in a footnote, it will make the thing so complete.”

For the sake of peace and quietness I consented. I am always too good-natured. People know it, and take advantage of my weakness.

So we started on our wild goose chase, except that Sir Harry’s brother, though from all accounts a goose, seemed to be far too great a duffer ever to have been wild.

Now I come to perhaps the strangest thing in all this strange business, and one which shows how wonderfully things can be brought about by a writer of Romance who knows his work.

We had hardly got well out of the suburbs when we came upon a small hut. Through the window we saw a white man, clothed in skins, standing with his back to the fire smoking a cheroot. Quelling his emotion with the suppressed force of a Stoic — (it was wonderful how he did it, a stray onlooker would never have suspected his delight) — Sir Harry put his head in at the window and said:

“Hullo! you here! You are my long-lost brother.” The man in the skins nearly jumped out of them with surprise, and on recognising his brother sat down somewhat abruptly.

“Did not you steal that quotation from ‘Box and Cox’” he said, in a querulous tone.

Ignoring the insinuation, Sir Harry added:

“Forgive me. Our parting was rather strained.”

“I was,” said his brother; “it hurt me very much.”

“Still, forgive me,” said Sir Harry; “I loved you all the time.”

“It was all very well to dissemble your love, but why did you kick me downstairs?”

“Come,” said Sir Harry, triumphantly, “that’s older than ‘Box and Cox’ anyhow. But I was wrong, I admit it. I should have dropped him over the bannisters,” he muttered in his beard.

“I have been here a long time,” said his brother. “The fact is — a most awkward thing — I broke my leg.”

“Any danger?” asked Sir Harry, anxiously.

“No, no; not now.”

“Ah,” said Sir Harry, concealing his delight at this bulletin, with a great effort. It was wonderful how he did it. “We will take you back.”

Thus were the brothers reconciled.

The next question was how to get away from Ipecacuanha Land. Umbugs said we were such good company he could not spare us. Of course, this is very flattering, but is rather a nuisance under the circumstances.

Twosh comes to our rescue. To begin with, he has found out all our tricks, and thinks, with us out of the way, he might start on his own account and make a good thing of it. Ever since his abdication he has been very much out at elbows.

Then Scraggi has been causing him great anxiety; he has returned to Fullarder after all, and urges his suit with renewed ardour. Poor Noegood is too infatuated to notice anything. It is becoming quite a scandal. People are beginning to talk; at last the papers get hold of it, and the most enterprising of the evening journals comes out with a paragraph headed “Scandal in Court Circles,” and stating that Scraggi had offered Fullarder marriage.

Poor old Twosh came to me in a frightful state.

“This must be stopped at all hazards,” he said, with almost tears in his eyes. “I could never give my consent to such a match. Noegood must marry Fullarder — he has compromised her already — and then you must all leave at once and take her with you.”

“But Umbugs!” I suggested.

“Oh, I’ll make it all right with him.”

I mentioned this scheme to Sir Harry, who was delighted. His brother did not count. Somehow or other Noegood did not quite seem to see it. “I cannot marry a black,” he complained. “To use the language of hyperbole, in which all these good people delight: The sun, that’s me, cannot mate with the darkness, nor the white with the black. Fullarder would be the first to see this.”

“Why not?” I said, “it’s all prejudice. ‘You shall take some savage woman; she shall rear your dusky race.’”

“That’s all dooced fine,” says Noegood, “but this is not ‘Locksley Hall’, this is ‘Sixty Years After.’ Nous avong changee tout cela.” These sailors are such linguists.

Still I explained that it was our only chance of getting away, and that Noegood personally had to choose between “a cycle of Cathay” unwedded, and “fifty years of Europe” with Fullarder’s company.

At last we talked him over, and he consented, though with great reluctance. But how are we to get away? Dare we tempt again the perils of the desert, and endeavour to find our way once more to Notatall? We all agreed this was out of the question, especially Sir Harry, who had fallen into arrears with the tricycle man, long before the machine came to grief.

CHAPTER X

AN OLD FRIEND — OUR DEPARTURE — OUR ARRIVAL IN ENGLAND — ENTHUSIASTIC RECEPTION

E  SLEEP over this momentous question. Next day rather a curious thing happened. Who should arrive but my dear old friend Dr. Carlyon in a balloon.

“Hallo!” I said, “there’s some mistake here, this is not Phantom Land. You’ve got into the wrong book.”

“The covers are so alike,” he complained, with an air of annoyance.

“Well, you are looking very well,” I added; “where have you been all this while?’”

“Oh!” he said; “I’ve had great fun. I fell over the biggest waterfall in South America and discovered a new city. Writing my name on all the principal monuments was not bad, but you should have seen my fight with a cockiolly bird [08]  in mid-air from my balloon. You would have enjoyed that; I have not had such a holiday for years.”

[08]  Note by Editor: Isn’t this libellous? Ask counsel.

“What brings you here?” I asked.

“Well, before taking my vacation I heard from your wife you were somewhere in this direction, and I thought I would look you up on my way home.” (I had written to my wife on getting safely away to acquaint her with my destination.) Carlyon here anchored his balloon and slid down the rope to the ground.

“Well, I am very glad to see you, anyhow,” I was just saying when we were interrupted by the appearance of Umbugs and his retinue, who advanced in a menacing attitude.

“What are we to do?” said Carlyon.

An idea struck me.

“You came in the moon, don’t you see? That will make it all right.”

“Rather thin, isn’t it?” said he; “those Savages know such a lot nowadays.”

“You have found out that, have you?”

“Awful,” he said; “it comes of educating the lower orders. Still, perhaps they don’t know Jules Verne. We will try it.”

We did. It was a great success. Umbugs was distinctly puzzled. We are saved; he had not read Jules Werne.

“Oh, that is the moon, is it?” he said, pointing to the balloon, “well, I don’t think much of it. Stay,” he added, with a cunning smile. “If that is the moon, he,” pointing to Carlyon, “is the man in the moon!”

“Of course,” I said, “the thing’s obvious.”

“Then,” said Umbugs — dropping into metaphor, as is their tiresome custom on the least provocation, “hath not he brought in the bag of fuscy hue, the spor of the Oof-bird, the wealth-giving fowl, in whose track lie riches, and of whom the snarer is fortunate among the sons of men?”

Carlyon looked grave. He never had a sixpence to bless himself with in his life.

“No,” I said, “you see how he has come; he has neither money nor expectations, he is an aer-o’-naught.”

When I explained this jeu de mot Umbugs was delighted. It led to trouble in the sequel, as he would repeat it as his own. They are not a humorous people, and several leading men lost their lives for not laughing at the right moment.

This put matters on a more pleasant footing, and when I had introduced Carlyon to Umbugs, they got on famously together, and in a minute or two were talking as if they had known one another all their lives. Dr Carlyon solved our great difficulty as to our departure.

“Why not come in my balloon?” he suggested next day when we were discussing the subject. “There’s lots of room.”

“Well,” I said, “that’s all very fine, but how is the balloon to get back?” for I did not fancy roaming vaguely through space for an indefinite time

“I will explain,” he said. “For years I have been one of the leading members of the Royal Aeronautical Society, and have studied the subject of balloon navigation in all its bearings carefully. Scientists have failed to hit the right nail on the head; in fact, they have gone on the wrong tack altogether. They say, and truly, you can’t control the air currents. I do not try to, I only ascend in a dead calm.”

“Then, how do you move?” I asked.

“I don’t move. I stand still.”

“Progression a little slow,” I suggested.

“Not a bit,” he continued; “I do not move, but the world does.”

A light dawned on me. “The world, as you are perhaps aware, revolves on its own axis once in the day. What do I do? I ascend in a dead calm. By a scientific process which it would be tedious to explain here — indeed, as I propose reading a paper on it to the Society, when I return, it would be unnecessary — I keep my balloon absolutely immovable. By a simple method of reckoning which I need not trouble you with — in fact, I doubt your understanding it — I discover when London, by a process of revolution, lies directly under the base of the car. Then we descend, and there you are in twenty-four hours, or perhaps less.”

The plan was stupendous. Such a journey would prove a fitting end to such an expedition as ours had proved. Our departure was soon arranged. Umbugs, though sorry to lose us, let himself be persuaded by Twosh. Still, a slight difficulty arose about Fullarder. Umbugs, to our horror, refused to let us go unless she were married first, in the interests of propriety. Sir Harry came to the rescue here.

“We must start at once,” he said, “as I must be back for the Cup Day at Ascot, and we could not get the banns out in time.”

Noegood backs him up, and remembers that he promised his mother never to be married in a Registrar’s Office. So the marriage is postponed, much to Fullarder’s disappointment, until we reach our native country.

Our leave-taking was very sad. Umbugs was inconsolable. Twosh bore up wonderfully; but Scraggi seemed to feel Fullarder’s loss immensely. A Royal mandate has been issued setting forth that anyone mentioning either of our names would be tortured to death. This, we are told, is an African method of showing intense respect. Of course, it may be so.

Just before the start, Umbugs approached Noegood, and said:

“Shall the black antelope who weds with the pale face, whose eye flashes and whose teeth gnash, leave her land portionless?”

Noegood looked delighted, and evidently thought Umbugs was going to do something handsome.

“I will not offer her the jewels of my country; though fit to bedeck a savage bride, they would ill suit the maiden a pale face honours with his love. No, for her I have reserved this great honour: she shall wear the priceless gems you have brought from your land beyond the sea. What have we that can compare with such as these?” Here Umbugs invested her with the complete insignia of the Primrose League. He had advanced through all the grades by this time.

Fullarder was delighted, but Noegood’s language was awful.

Sir Harry’s brother would come with us. No one wanted him and Sir Harry tried hard to persuade him to stay, and stalk lions by himself, by pointing out, “what fun you could have, if you went alone and didn’t take firearms.” His brother, however, could not be brought to see it.

Our balloon trip was a great success. Fullarder enjoyed it immensely, though she thought it rather flighty.

Dr. Carlyon shaped his course beautifully, though perhaps it was a pity that we should have descended in Rotten Row, in the middle of the Church Parade. It was the height of the season too, the Sunday between the Derby and Ascot.

The police are so officious, though perhaps, our appearance was hardly de rigueur. Sir Harry’s costume had shrunk from exposure, and was very tight. His brother wore his skins, but poor Fullarder had not much beyond her Primrose adornments. As for me, I had been clothed just before leaving with a coating of tar, and decorated with feathers interspersed with rare art. At some distance it had the appearance of a tightly fitting suit of dress clothes. They would do it, though I begged them not to bother. It is a ceremony of the country reserved exclusively for distinguished strangers on their departure.

Noegood was, perhaps, the most striking figure of us all. True, he had his dress clothes, but they were considerably out of repair. In the place of his glass eye (he had lent it to Twosh, and could never get it back again) he utilised his cat’s-eye solitaire, which had certainly an unique effect.

On the whole, our arrival was almost worthy of the sensation it created.

We managed to pacify the crowd by informing them that this was only our method of celebrating the Jubilee year of Her Gracious Majesty’s reign.

Sir Harry offered us lunch at any of his clubs; Noegood selected the “Blucher,” as he said, now the new rooms were open, we can take Fullarder there.

Here, as I have nothing more to say, I may bring this history to a close.

My wife received me rather coolly, but has consented to defer judgement until my book is produced, enabling me to account for my absence.

Sir Harry had to drop the title, but kept the estates. His brother is at present detained in a private lunatic asylum. He brought it on himself; he would talk about his adventures. One day he did so at dinner, when by the merest accident two doctors had dropped in to take pot-luck with Sir Harry, as I still call him. The certificate was signed over the second bottle of port, and the patient was removed the next day. The bills for strait-waistcoats are a great tax on Sir Harry, who manages the estates, and takes the profits.

Noegood would not marry Fullarder after all. These sailors are so fickle. She sued him for breach of promise and got heavy damages. On the strength of these she came out as a star actress, and is, I hear, a great success in America.

Dr. Carlyon was unanimously elected president of the Royal Aeronautical Society, and expects with confidence a knighthood before the year is finished.