with apologies to Sir John Tenniel
“It really doesn’t matter which,” said the Ineptitude, with languid interest.
“Of course it doesn’t,” the Cat went on cheerfully, “because the unravelling got so tangled that no one could follow it. Its theory is,” he continued, seeing that Alice was waiting for more, “that you mustn’t interfere with the Inevitable. Slide and let slide, you know.”
“But what do you keep it here for?” asked Alice.
“Oh, somehow you can’t help it; it’s so perfectly harmless and amiable and says the nastiest things in the nicest manner, and the King just couldn’t do without it. The King is only made of pasteboard, you know, with sharp edges; and the Queen”—here the Cat sank its voice to a whisper—“the Queen comes from another pack, made of Brummagem ware, without polish, but absolutely indestructible; always pushing, you know; but you can’t push an Ineptitude. Might as well try to hustle a glacier.”
“That’s why you keep so many of them about,” said Alice.
“Of course. But its temper is not what it used to be. Lots of things have happened to worry it.”
“What sort of things?”
“Oh, people have been dying off in round numbers, in the most ostentatious manner, and the Ineptitude dislikes fuss—but hush, here’s the King coming.”
His Majesty was looking doleful and grumpy, Alice thought, as though he had been disturbed in an afternoon nap. “Who is this, and what is that Cat doing here?” he asked, glancing gloomily at Alice and her companion.