"Away to the land of the Joks, and the Judimows—the Quipps and the Kranx. Away, to find a way!"
Once again came the roar of mighty laughter. From far, far away it came with a dreadful muttering noise, that grew and grew to a crash and a roar, which combined in itself all that is terrible and yet splendid in the possibilities of sound. Then it passed away, and disappeared in a murmured guffaw.
Then Unredd and Spoylpaperos, feeling sure of the presence of two gleaming eyes above the beautiful red nose, turned sharply round and fled.
And they journeyed on and on, through the snow and the ice, until they came to the land of the desert, in which they found themselves (strange to say) in a warmer atmosphere than that to which they had grown accustomed in the regions of the North Pole. Then a strange thing happened. They witnessed a fight between an elephant and a cat. The elephant managed to get well on the bank of the river which ran (conveniently) through the desert, in spite of the cat nipping on to one of its legs. Gradually the cat began to swallow the leg, then the body, then the head, until nothing but the trunk of the elephant was left. A strange thing had happened—the elephant had been swallowed by the cat!
"He was evidently going out of town," said Unredd, airily.
"So I see," replied Spoylpaperos, and he pointed to the trunk. Once more came the dreadful muttering noise that ended in a roar of laughter, and again a shadowy form floated past them—the Ghost of a Joke! And when they looked towards the cat it too had gone, having disappeared (so they subsequently ascertained) with a grin. They then knew the creature's breed—it was a Cheshire cat!
And now they were in front of the Sphinx, who was looking down upon them with a most fiendish and terrifying expression. Surrounding this ancient Egyptian Monument were numberless scrolls (many inscribed "Δεκλ.νεδ—Θανκς") sent there by a forgotten people. Unredd picked up one of comparatively modern date. It was a strange scroll, full of hieroglyphics and languages of many races. Here was the ancient Greek—and the more modern Arabic. There was something that seemed to be Russian—there a line that might be antediluvian Irish. All jumbled up together, in seemingly hopeless confusion.
"See," cried Unredd, excitedly, "I can make out 'When is the door of the neighbour'"—and then he stopped.
"Quite so," replied Spoylpaperos, "but it has no answer. Stay though—what is this? 'The duck of the gardener (gardener's duck) puts his head into the pond belonging to the grandmother of the sailor (sailor's grandmother) for the reasons of the diver (diver's reasons.)' This is very strange!"
"Indeed, it is," acquiesced Unredd, and then he cried, on making a farther discovery, "See the Author's name!"