“Why, it’s a kind of king, you know,” I explained, feeling that the explanation was rather a lame one.
“A kind of king!” exclaimed the police officer. “Explain yourself.”
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t explain more clearly than that,” I replied. “This gentleman has been staying with me for a couple of days, and went out this morning and lost his way.”
“Where did he come from?” asked the man.
“Why? Because I want to know,” he shouted. “Don’t let me have any further prevarication. Where did the man, or Wallypug, or whatever you call him, come from?”
“From Why. From a place called Why, you know,” I repeated.
“I don’t know,” said the officer. “I’ve never heard of such a place. Where is it?”
“Well, really,” I said, “I’m very sorry, but I cannot tell you. I don’t know myself.”
“This is very remarkable,” said the man, glaring at me through his glasses. “You don’t know your friend’s name; you call him a Wallypug, and can’t explain what that is, you don’t know where he comes from—perhaps you can tell me how he reached your house?”