Part 26 (1/2)
”Yes. I'm seeing beaver,” I replied.
”It is here!” said Kysh, with the air and gesture of Captain Nemo, and half turned.
”No--no--no! For 'Eaven's sake--not 'ere!” Our guest gasped like a sea- bathed child, as four efficient hands swung him far out-board on to the turf. The car ran back noiselessly down the slope.
”Look! Look! It's sorcery!” cried Hinchcliffe.
There was a report like a pistol shot as the beaver dived from the roof of his lodge, but we watched our guest. He was on his knees, praying to kangaroos. Yea, in his bowler hat he kneeled before kangaroos--gigantic, erect, silhouetted against the light--four buck-kangaroos in the heart of Suss.e.x!
And we retrogressed over the velvet gra.s.s till our hind-wheels struck well-rolled gravel, leading us to sanity, main roads, and, half an hour later, the ”Grapnel Inn” at Horsham.
After a great meal we poured libations and made burnt-offerings in honour of Kysh, who received our homage graciously, and, by the way, explained a few things in the natural history line that had puzzled us. England is a most marvellous country, but one is not, till one knows the eccentricities of large land-owners, trained to accept kangaroos, zebras, or beavers as part of its landscape.
When we went to bed Pyecroft pressed my hand, his voice thick with emotion.
”We owe it to you,” he said. ”We owe it all to you. Didn't I say we never met in _pup-pup-puris naturalibus_, if I may so put it, without a remarkably hectic day ahead of us?”
”That's all right,” I said. ”Mind the candle.” He was tracing smoke- patterns on the wall.
”But what I want to know is whether we'll succeed in acclimatisin' the blighter, or whether Sir William Gardner's keepers 'll kill 'im before 'e gets accustomed to 'is surroundin's?”
Some day, I think, we must go up the Linghurst Road and find out.
”WIRELESS”
KASPAR'S SONG IN VARDA
(_From the Swedish of Stagnelius_.)
Eyes aloft, over dangerous places, The children follow where Psyche flies, And, in the sweat of their upturned faces, Slash with a net at the empty skies.
So it goes they fall amid brambles, And sting their toes on the nettle-tops, Till after a thousand scratches and scrambles They wipe their brows, and the hunting stops.
Then to quiet them comes their father And stills the riot of pain and grief, Saying, ”Little ones, go and gather Out of my garden a cabbage leaf.
”You will find on it whorls and clots of Dull grey eggs that, properly fed, Turn, by way of the worm, to lots of Radiant Psyches raised from the dead.”
”Heaven is beautiful, Earth is ugly,”
The three-dimensioned preacher saith, So we must not look where the snail and the slug lie For Psyche's birth ... And that is our death!
”WIRELESS”
”It's a funny thing, this Marconi business, isn't it?” said Mr. Shaynor, coughing heavily. ”Nothing seems to make any difference, by what they tell me--storms, hills, or anything; but if that's true we shall know before morning.”
”Of course it's true,” I answered, stepping behind the counter. ”Where's old Mr. Cash.e.l.l?”
”He's had to go to bed on account of his influenza. He said you'd very likely drop in.”
”Where's his nephew?”