GUINEA-PIGS.
It was with ill-concealed trepidation that I approached the Pontifical Personage who presides over Messrs. Barkrod and Tomridge's Zoological Department. The recollection of my previous and only encounter with him still burned in my memory. I had gone thither with a young nephew on whom in a rash moment I had urged the satisfaction to be derived from the study of natural history and he had countered with a birthday and a demand that I should convert precept to practice by providing him with a pet.
The P.P. greeted us with benignant expectancy. His white apron merely accentuated the obvious fact that he had come in a limousine. I have since decided that he mistook me for an eccentric peer. It seems that eccentric peers and struggling journalists are apt to provide the same air of sartorial abandon to the eye of the uninitiated.
It was the young nephew, however, who made the running. The entire menagerie whistled, barked, sat up on its hind legs, performed acrobatic feats and said, "Scratch poor Polly," at his discriminating behest. Finally he reached a point where he simply could not decide between a Goliath cockatoo at £22 10s. and a white-faced Douroucouli at twenty-seven guineas.
At this juncture I insinuated myself into the discussion, and by the exercise of subtle pressure got him to compromise on a pair of white rats at half-a-crown. Never shall I forget the look of majestic contempt with which the Personage withered me as he extracted two torpid rodents from a congeries of their kith and, holding them by their pink tails, dropped them into a paper bag with the air of a Marchese depositing alms in the palm of a lazzarone.
Not lightly indeed did I again enter into the Presence. But on this occasion duty called. The troubadour with lady's glove in helm never showed a bolder front than the journalist in search of copy. And boldness, it seemed, was to be rewarded. As I approached the Pontifical Personage it appeared certain that he did not remember me. And why, I asked myself, should he? Had I been the Duke of Bedford or the President of the Ladies' Kennel Club I might have expected a place in his august memory. But an insignificant uncle buying white rats—it was absurd, of course, to fear recognition.
I plunged straightway in medias res. "I have here," I said, "a journal of unimpeachable veracity which declares that the Pasteur Institute in Paris is suffering from a guinea-pig shortage. Please oblige me with your expert opinion on this momentous matter."
The P.P. smiled slightly, cleared his throat and, waving me to the further end of the menagerie, proceeded to answer my question. "The common or Sicilian guinea-pig," he began, "the Porculus Auriferus Excubitor of Buffon, is still fairly common, though I may say that it is many a day since they could be purchased for a guinea. An allied species, the Chinese or edible guinea-pig, the Sing Fat Soo of the Cantonese restaurateur, is indeed quite plentiful, but for some reason or other has never found favour with the leading English fanciers. The fact is that since the War our customers have become more discerning, and the common guinea-pig, being no longer called for, is not bred and has therefore ceased to be available for scientific purposes. A few of the art shades, notably tête-nègre and beige pigs, are still in request by the furriers; but the public demand is for something more select.
"Now here"—and reaching into an adjoining cage the Pontifical Personage extracted between finger and thumb a pinch of twitching fluff—"is the most highly-prized of the race, the blue Himalayan pig. Only five specimens have so far reached this country. The first pair were presented to the Duchess of Snoblands by the Maharajah of Khidmutgar about three years ago, but the sow met with an unfortunate accident in her ladyship's absence, being dipped into a box of face-powder by a thoughtless maidservant. The third specimen, a fine boar, was brought from China as the mascot of H.M.S. Colossus, but just after reaching harbour was accidentally devoured by the ship's cat. The remaining two I have here. They are expensive, of course, a hundred-and-five guineas the pair, but quite unique.
"Of greater zoological interest perhaps is this little fellow, Porculus Auriferus Decaudatus, an arboreal species from the Solomon Islands; or the striated guinea-pig of Central Nicaragua, which I am happily able to show you."
He placed Nicaragua's most valuable product in my hand, and it promptly bit me. That I did not drop it into a cageful of terrier-pups was wholly due to the native vigour with which Striatus hung on.
"The price of that is forty-five guineas," continued the Pontifical Person smoothly, as he restored it to its cage. I shivered.
"Now here," he went on, "is a pig of real historic interest. I have a fair number of them just in from my collectors in the Persian Gulf and can do them at eighteen pounds the pair." He motioned me towards a larger cage wherein a bevy of dun-coloured piglets were holding a soviet. "The Sumerian or Desert Pig," he explained, "of the Oxyrhynchus Papyri, erroneously identified by Grenfell and Hunt with the Southern form of the Tree Hyrax."
It was at this point that my intelligence forsook me. I had been getting on too well. It was the old story of over-confidence.
"Honestly now, old chap," I said, "and strictly between ourselves, do you ever sell any of the little beasts?"
His face lit up in a brilliant smile. "No, Sir," he replied, drawing himself up majestically and looking me squarely in the eye, "we keep these to show to inquisitive customers. We only sell white rats!"
I fled. As I crossed the interminable length of floor that separated me from the door I could feel that contemptuous smile rowelling my shrinking vertebræ. Halfway across, the Blue Himalyan guinea-pig could have given me three drachms and whipped me by sheer brute strength. As I sped towards the door an attendant opened it. It was unnecessary. I could easily have crept underneath it.
Algol.
Magistrate. "Do you want a lawyer to defend you?"
Prisoner. "Not particularly, Sir."
Magistrate. "Well, what do you propose to do about the case?"
Prisoner. "Oh, I'm quite willing to drop it as far as I'm concerned."
"Vacuum for Sale, good condition. After 6 o'clock."—Provincial Paper.
Our own is generally at its best about an hour and a-half later.
Mistress (returned from shopping). "Has anyone called, Laura, while I've been out?"
Laura (newly from the country and eager to display her progress in urban manners). "No, Ma'am, only the telephone rang, Ma'am, and I did put on my clean cap and apron to answer it, Ma'am."