The Punch man has, however, to admit himself beaten in the matter of Sir Oliver Lodge. On inquiring at Birmingham University he was told that the illustrious Principal was absent, no one knew where, but it was believed that he was visiting the higher slopes of Mount Sinai. All that the Punch man could obtain was one of the black velvet skull-caps which the seer wears, but, as it refused to give up any of its secrets, he must confess to failure—at any rate until Sir Oliver returns.
Being in Brummagem (as it has been wittily called), the Punch man bethought him of the Rev. R.J. Campbell, once the very darling of the new gods—in fact the arch neo-theologian. But Mr. Campbell, erstwhile so articulate and confident, had nothing to say. All he could do was to lock himself for safety in his church and look through the keyhole with his beautiful troubled wistful orbs.
Mr. G.K. Chesterton loomed up to a dizzy height amid a cloud of new witnesses. Greeting the Punch man, he laid aside his proofs.
"I was just deleting the abusive epithet 'Lloyd' from all the references to the Premier," he said, "but I have a moment for you. I find a moment sufficient time for the assumption of any conviction however lifelong."
The Punch man asked if he had read the Dunmow evangel.
"I have read Mr. Wells's book, God, the Invisible Man, with the greatest interest," said Mr. Chesterton.
The Punch man ventured to correct him. "God, the Invisible King," he interposed.
"Very likely," replied the anti-Marconi Colossus. "But what's in a title anyway? Books should not have titles at all, but be numbered, like a composer's operas, Op. 1, Op. 2, and so on."
"Whether or not the opping comes, some of them," said the Punch man, "are certain to be skipped."
The giant was visibly annoyed. "You're not playing the game," he said. "It's I who ought to have said that. Not you. You're only the interviewer. You'd better give it to me anyway."