CHAPTER III:  MY FATHER WHILE CAMPING IS ACCOSTED BY PROFESSORS HANKY AND PANKY

My father found the ascent more fatiguing than he remembered it to have been.  The climb, he said, was steady, and took him between four and five hours, as near as he could guess, now that he had no watch; but it offered nothing that could be called a difficulty, and the watercourse that came down from the saddle was a sufficient guide; once or twice there were waterfalls, but they did not seriously delay him.

After he had climbed some three thousand feet, he began to be on the alert for some sound of ghostly chanting from the statues; but he heard nothing, and toiled on till he came to a sprinkling of fresh snow—­part of the fall which he had observed on the preceding day as having whitened the higher mountains; he knew, therefore, that he must now be nearing the saddle.  The snow grew rapidly deeper, and by the time he reached the statues the ground was covered to a depth of two or three inches.

He found the statues smaller than he had expected.  He had said in his book—­written many months after he had seen them—­that they were about six times the size of life, but he now thought that four or five times would have been enough to say.  Their mouths were much clogged with snow, so that even though there had been a strong wind (which there was not) they would not have chanted.  In other respects he found them not less mysteriously impressive than at first.  He walked two or three times all round them, and then went on.

The snow did not continue far down, but before long my father entered a thick bank of cloud, and had to feel his way cautiously along the stream that descended from the pass.  It was some two hours before he emerged into clear air, and found himself on the level bed of an old lake now grassed over.  He had quite forgotten this feature of the descent—­perhaps the clouds had hung over it; he was overjoyed, however, to find that the flat ground abounded with a kind of quail, larger than ours, and hardly, if at all, smaller than a partridge.  The abundance of these quails surprised him, for he did not remember them as plentiful anywhere on the Erewhonian side of the mountains.

The Erewhonian quail, like its now nearly, if not quite, extinct New Zealand congener, can take three successive flights of a few yards each, but then becomes exhausted; hence quails are only found on ground that is never burned, and where there are no wild animals to molest them; the cats and dogs that accompany European civilisation soon exterminate them; my father, therefore, felt safe in concluding that he was still far from any village.  Moreover he could see no sheep or goat’s dung; and this surprised him, for he thought he had found signs of pasturage much higher than this.  Doubtless, he said to himself, when he wrote his book he had forgotten how long the descent had been.  But it was odd, for the grass was good feed enough, and ought, he considered, to have been well stocked.

Tired with his climb, during which he had not rested to take food, but had eaten biscuits, as he walked, he gave himself a good long rest, and when refreshed, he ran down a couple of dozen quails, some of which he meant to eat when he camped for the night, while the others would help him out of a difficulty which had been troubling him for some time.

What was he to say when people asked him, as they were sure to do, how he was living?  And how was he to get enough Erewhonian money to keep him going till he could find some safe means of selling a few of his nuggets?  He had had a little Erewhonian money when he went up in the balloon, but had thrown it over, with everything else except the clothes he wore and his MSS., when the balloon was nearing the water.  He had nothing with him that he dared offer for sale, and though he had plenty of gold, was in reality penniless.

When, therefore, he saw the quails, he again felt as though some friendly spirit was smoothing his way before him.  What more easy than to sell them at Coldharbour (for so the name of the town in which he had been imprisoned should be translated), where he knew they were a delicacy, and would fetch him the value of an English shilling a piece?

It took him between two and three hours to catch two dozen.  When he had thus got what he considered a sufficient stock, he tied their legs together with rushes, and ran a stout stick through the whole lot.  Soon afterwards he came upon a wood of stunted pines, which, though there was not much undergrowth, nevertheless afforded considerable shelter and enabled him to gather wood enough to make himself a good fire.  This was acceptable, for though the days were long, it was now evening, and as soon as the sun had gone the air became crisp and frosty.

Here he resolved to pass the night.  He chose a part where the trees were thickest, lit his fire, plucked and cleaned four quails, filled his billy with water from the stream hard by, made tea in his pannikin, grilled two of his birds on the embers, ate them, and when he had done all this, he lit his pipe and began to think things over.  “So far so good,” said he to himself; but hardly had the words passed through his mind before he was startled by the sound of voices, still at some distance, but evidently drawing towards him.

He instantly gathered up his billy, pannikin, tea, biscuits, and blanket, all of which he had determined to discard and hide on the following morning; everything that could betray him he carried full haste into the wood some few yards off, in the direction opposite to that from which the voices were coming, but he let his quails lie where they were, and put his pipe and tobacco in his pocket.

The voices drew nearer and nearer, and it was all my father could do to get back and sit down innocently by his fire, before he could hear what was being said.

“Thank goodness,” said one of the speakers (of course in the Erewhonian language), “we seem to be finding somebody at last.  I hope it is not some poacher; we had better be careful.”

“Nonsense!” said the other.  “It must be one of the rangers.  No one would dare to light a fire while poaching on the King’s preserves.  What o’clock do you make it?”

“Half after nine.”  And the watch was still in the speaker’s hand as he emerged from darkness into the glowing light of the fire.  My father glanced at it, and saw that it was exactly like the one he had worn on entering Erewhon nearly twenty years previously.

The watch, however, was a very small matter; the dress of these two men (for there were only two) was far more disconcerting.  They were not in the Erewhonian costume.  The one was dressed like an Englishman or would-be Englishman, while the other was wearing the same kind of clothes but turned the wrong way round, so that when his face was towards my father his body seemed to have its back towards him, and vice verso.  The man’s head, in fact, appeared to have been screwed right round; and yet it was plain that if he were stripped he would be found built like other people.

What could it all mean?  The men were about fifty years old.  They were well-to-do people, well clad, well fed, and were felt instinctively by my father to belong to the academic classes.  That one of them should be dressed like a sensible Englishman dismayed my father as much as that the other should have a watch, and look as if he had just broken out of Bedlam, or as King Dagobert must have looked if he had worn all his clothes as he is said to have worn his breeches.  Both wore their clothes so easily—­for he who wore them reversed had evidently been measured with a view to this absurd fashion—­that it was plain their dress was habitual.

My father was alarmed as well as astounded, for he saw that what little plan of a campaign he had formed must be reconstructed, and he had no idea in what direction his next move should be taken; but he was a ready man, and knew that when people have taken any idea into their heads, a little confirmation will fix it.  A first idea is like a strong seedling; it will grow if it can.

In less time than it will have taken the reader to get through the last foregoing paragraphs, my father took up the cue furnished him by the second speaker.

“Yes,” said he, going boldly up to this gentleman, “I am one of the rangers, and it is my duty to ask you what you are doing here upon the King’s preserves.”

“Quite so, my man,” was the rejoinder.  “We have been to see the statues at the head of the pass, and have a permit from the Mayor of Sunch’ston to enter upon the preserves.  We lost ourselves in the thick fog, both going and coming back.”

My father inwardly blessed the fog.  He did not catch the name of the town, but presently found that it was commonly pronounced as I have written it.

“Be pleased to show it me,” said my father in his politest manner.  On this a document was handed to him.

I will here explain that I shall translate the names of men and places, as well as the substance of the document; and I shall translate all names in future.  Indeed I have just done so in the case of Sunch’ston.  As an example, let me explain that the true Erewhonian names for Hanky and Panky, to whom the reader will be immediately introduced, are Sukoh and Sukop—­names too cacophonous to be read with pleasure by the English public.  I must ask the reader to believe that in all cases I am doing my best to give the spirit of the original name.

I would also express my regret that my father did not either uniformly keep to the true Erewhonian names, as in the cases of Senoj Nosnibor, Ydgrun, Thims, &c.—­names which occur constantly in Erewhon—­or else invariably invent a name, as he did whenever he considered the true name impossible.  My poor mother’s name, for example, was really Nna Haras, and Mahaina’s Enaj Ysteb, which he dared not face.  He, therefore, gave these characters the first names that euphony suggested, without any attempt at translation.  Rightly or wrongly, I have determined to keep consistently to translation for all names not used in my father’s book; and throughout, whether as regards names or conversations, I shall translate with the freedom without which no translation rises above construe level.

Let me now return to the permit.  The earlier part of the document was printed, and ran as follows:-

“Extracts from the Act for the afforesting of certain lands lying between the town of Sunchildston, formerly called Coldharbour, and the mountains which bound the kingdom of Erewhon, passed in the year Three, being the eighth year of the reign of his Most Gracious Majesty King Well-beloved the Twenty-Second.

“Whereas it is expedient to prevent any of his Majesty’s subjects from trying to cross over into unknown lands beyond the mountains, and in like manner to protect his Majesty’s kingdom from intrusion on the part of foreign devils, it is hereby enacted that certain lands, more particularly described hereafter, shall be afforested and set apart as a hunting-ground for his Majesty’s private use.

“It is also enacted that the Rangers and Under-rangers shall be required to immediately kill without parley any foreign devil whom they may encounter coming from the other side of the mountains.  They are to weight the body, and throw it into the Blue Pool under the waterfall shown on the plan hereto annexed; but on pain of imprisonment for life they shall not reserve to their own use any article belonging to the deceased.  Neither shall they divulge what they have done to any one save the Head Ranger, who shall report the circumstances of the case fully and minutely to his Majesty.

“As regards any of his Majesty’s subjects who may be taken while trespassing on his Majesty’s preserves without a special permit signed by the Mayor of Sunchildston, or any who may be convicted of poaching on the said preserves, the Rangers shall forthwith arrest them and bring them before the Mayor of Sunchildston, who shall enquire into their antecedents, and punish them with such term of imprisonment, with hard labour, as he may think fit, provided that no such term be of less duration than twelve calendar months.

   “For the further provisions of the said Act, those whom it may concern
   are referred to the Act in full, a copy of which may be seen at the
   official residence of the Mayor of Sunchildston.”

Then followed in MS.  “XIX. xii. 29.  Permit Professor Hanky, Royal Professor of Worldly Wisdom at Bridgeford, seat of learning, city of the people who are above suspicion, and Professor Panky, Royal Professor of Unworldly Wisdom in the said city, or either of them” [here the MS. ended, the rest of the permit being in print] “to pass freely during the space of forty-eight hours from the date hereof, over the King’s preserves, provided, under pain of imprisonment with hard labour for twelve months, that they do not kill, nor cause to be killed, nor eat, if another have killed, any one or more of his Majesty’s quails.”

The signature was such a scrawl that my father could not read it, but underneath was printed, “Mayor of Sunchildston, formerly called Coldharbour.”

What a mass of information did not my father gather as he read, but what a far greater mass did he not see that he must get hold of ere he could reconstruct his plans intelligently.

“The year three,” indeed; and XIX. xii. 29, in Roman and Arabic characters!  There were no such characters when he was in Erewhon before.  It flashed upon him that he had repeatedly shewn them to the Nosnibors, and had once even written them down.  It could not be that . . .  No, it was impossible; and yet there was the European dress, aimed at by the one Professor, and attained by the other.  Again “XIX.” what was that? “xii.” might do for December, but it was now the 4th of December not the 29th.  “Afforested” too?  Then that was why he had seen no sheep tracks.  And how about the quails he had so innocently killed?  What would have happened if he had tried to sell them in Coldharbour?  What other like fatal error might he not ignorantly commit?  And why had Coldharbour become Sunchildston?

These thoughts raced through my poor father’s brain as he slowly perused the paper handed to him by the Professors.  To give himself time he feigned to be a poor scholar, but when he had delayed as long as he dared, he returned it to the one who had given it him.  Without changing a muscle he said—­

“Your permit, sir, is quite regular.  You can either stay here the night or go on to Sunchildston as you think fit.  May I ask which of you two gentlemen is Professor Hanky, and which Professor Panky?”

“My name is Panky,” said the one who had the watch, who wore his clothes reversed, and who had thought my father might be a poacher.

“And mine Hanky,” said the other.

“What do you think, Panky,” he added, turning to his brother Professor, “had we not better stay here till sunrise?  We are both of us tired, and this fellow can make us a good fire.  It is very dark, and there will be no moon this two hours.  We are hungry, but we can hold out till we get to Sunchildston; it cannot be more than eight or nine miles further down.”

Panky assented, but then, turning sharply to my father, he said, “My man, what are you doing in the forbidden dress?  Why are you not in ranger’s uniform, and what is the meaning of all those quails?” For his seedling idea that my father was in reality a poacher was doing its best to grow.

Quick as thought my father answered, “The Head Ranger sent me a message this morning to deliver him three dozen quails at Sunchildston by to-morrow afternoon.  As for the dress, we can run the quails down quicker in it, and he says nothing to us so long as we only wear out old clothes and put on our uniforms before we near the town.  My uniform is in the ranger’s shelter an hour and a half higher up the valley.”

“See what comes,” said Panky, “of having a whippersnapper not yet twenty years old in the responsible post of Head Ranger.  As for this fellow, he may be speaking the truth, but I distrust him.”

“The man is all right, Panky,” said Hanky, “and seems to be a decent fellow enough.”  Then to my father, “How many brace have you got?” And he looked at them a little wistfully.

“I have been at it all day, sir, and I have only got eight brace.  I must run down ten more brace to-morrow.”

“I see, I see.”  Then, turning to Panky, he said, “Of course, they are wanted for the Mayor’s banquet on Sunday.  By the way, we have not yet received our invitation; I suppose we shall find it when we get back to Sunchildston.”

“Sunday, Sunday, Sunday!” groaned my father inwardly; but he changed not a muscle of his face, and said stolidly to Professor Hanky, “I think you must be right, sir; but there was nothing said about it to me, I was only told to bring the birds.”

Thus tenderly did he water the Professor’s second seedling.  But Panky had his seedling too, and, Cain-like, was jealous that Hanky’s should flourish while his own was withering.

“And what, pray, my man,” he said somewhat peremptorily to my father, “are those two plucked quails doing?  Were you to deliver them plucked?  And what bird did those bones belong to which I see lying by the fire with the flesh all eaten off them?  Are the under-rangers allowed not only to wear the forbidden dress but to eat the King’s quails as well?”

The form in which the question was asked gave my father his cue.  He laughed heartily, and said, “Why, sir, those plucked birds are landrails, not quails, and those bones are landrail bones.  Look at this thigh-bone; was there ever a quail with such a bone as that?”

I cannot say whether or no Professor Panky was really deceived by the sweet effrontery with which my father proffered him the bone.  If he was taken in, his answer was dictated simply by a donnish unwillingness to allow any one to be better informed on any subject than he was himself.

My father, when I suggested this to him, would not hear of it.  “Oh no,” he said; “the man knew well enough that I was lying.”  However this may be, the Professor’s manner changed.

“You are right,” he said, “I thought they were landrail bones, but was not sure till I had one in my hand.  I see, too, that the plucked birds are landrails, but there is little light, and I have not often seen them without their feathers.”

“I think,” said my father to me, “that Hanky knew what his friend meant, for he said, ‘Panky, I am very hungry.’”

“Oh, Hanky, Hanky,” said the other, modulating his harsh voice till it was quite pleasant.  “Don’t corrupt the poor man.”

“Panky, drop that; we are not at Bridgeford now; I am very hungry, and I believe half those birds are not quails but landrails.”

My father saw he was safe.  He said, “Perhaps some of them might prove to be so, sir, under certain circumstances.  I am a poor man, sir.”

“Come, come,” said Hanky; and he slipped a sum equal to about half-a-crown into my father’s hand.

“I do not know what you mean, sir,” said my father, “and if I did, half-a-crown would not be nearly enough.”

“Hanky,” said Panky, “you must get this fellow to give you lessons.”