It was with ill-concealed trepidation that I approached the Pontifical
Personage who presides over Messrs. Barkrod and Tomridge's Zoological
Department. The recollection of my previous and only encounter with him
still burned in my memory. I had gone thither with a young nephew on whom
in a rash moment I had urged the satisfaction to be derived from the study
of natural history and he had countered with a birthday and a demand that I
should convert precept to practice by providing him with a pet.
The P.P. greeted us with benignant expectancy. His white apron merely
accentuated the obvious fact that he had come in a limousine. I have since
decided that he mistook me for an eccentric peer. It seems that eccentric
peers and struggling journalists are apt to provide the same air of
sartorial abandon to the eye of the uninitiated.
It was the young nephew, however, who made the running. The entire
menagerie whistled, barked, sat up on its hind legs, performed acrobatic
feats and said, "Scratch poor Polly," at his discriminating behest. Finally
he reached a point where he simply could not decide between a Goliath
cockatoo at £22 10_s_. and a white-faced Douroucouli at twenty-seven
guineas.
At this juncture I insinuated myself into the discussion, and by the
exercise of subtle pressure got him to compromise on a pair of white rats
at half-a-crown. Never shall I forget the look of majestic contempt with
which the Personage withered me as he extracted two torpid rodents from a
congeries of their kith and, holding them by their pink tails, dropped them
into a paper bag with the air of a Marchese depositing alms in the palm of
a lazzarone.
Not lightly indeed did I again enter into the Presence. But on this
occasion duty called. The troubadour with lady's glove in helm never showed
a bolder front than the journalist in search of copy. And boldness, it
seemed, was to be rewarded. As I approached the Pontifical Personage it
appeared certain that he did not remember me. And why, I asked myself,
should he? Had I been the Duke of BEDFORD or the President of the Ladies'
Kennel Club I might have expected a place in his august memory. But an
insignificant uncle buying white rats--it was absurd, of course, to fear
recognition.
I plunged straightway _in medias res_. "I have here," I said, "a journal of
unimpeachable veracity which declares that the Pasteur Institute in Paris
is suffering from a guinea-pig shortage. Please oblige me with your expert
opinion on this momentous matter."
The P.P. smiled slightly, cleared his throat and, waving me to the further
end of the menagerie, proceeded to answer my question. "The common or
Sicilian guinea-pig," he began, "the _Porculus Auriferus Excubitor_ of
BUFFON, is still fairly common, though I may say that it is many a day
since they could be purchased for a guinea. An allied species, the Chinese
or edible guinea-pig, the Sing Fat Soo of the Cantonese restaurateur, is
indeed quite plentiful, but for some reason or other has never found favour
with the leading English fanciers. The fact is that since the War our
customers have become more discerning, and the common guinea-pig, being no
longer called for, is not bred and has therefore ceased to be available for
scientific purposes. A few of the art shades, notably _tête-nègre_ and
_beige_ pigs, are still in request by the furriers; but the public demand
is for something more select.
"Now here"--and reaching into an adjoining cage the Pontifical Personage
extracted between finger and thumb a pinch of twitching fluff--"is the most
highly-prized of the race, the blue Himalayan pig. Only five specimens have
so far reached this country. The first pair were presented to the Duchess
of Snoblands by the Maharajah of Khidmutgar about three years ago, but the
sow met with an unfortunate accident in her ladyship's absence, being
dipped into a box of face-powder by a thoughtless maidservant. The third
specimen, a fine boar, was brought from China as the mascot of H.M.S.
_Colossus_, but just after reaching harbour was accidentally devoured by
the ship's cat. The remaining two I have here. They are expensive, of
course, a hundred-and-five guineas the pair, but quite unique.
"Of greater zoological interest perhaps is this little fellow, _Porculus
Auriferus Decaudatus_, an arboreal species from the Solomon Islands; or the
striated guinea-pig of Central Nicaragua, which I am happily able to show
you."
He placed Nicaragua's most valuable product in my hand, and it promptly bit
me. That I did not drop it into a cageful of terrier-pups was wholly due to
the native vigour with which _Striatus_ hung on.
"The price of that is forty-five guineas," continued the Pontifical Person
smoothly, as he restored it to its cage. I shivered.
"Now here," he went on, "is a pig of real historic interest. I have a fair
number of them just in from my collectors in the Persian Gulf and can do
them at eighteen pounds the pair." He motioned me towards a larger cage
wherein a bevy of dun-coloured piglets were holding a soviet. "The Sumerian
or Desert Pig," he explained, "of the _Oxyrhynchus Papyri_, erroneously
identified by GRENFELL and HUNT with the Southern form of the Tree Hyrax."
It was at this point that my intelligence forsook me. I had been getting on
too well. It was the old story of over-confidence.
"Honestly now, old chap," I said, "and strictly between ourselves, do you
ever sell any of the little beasts?"
His face lit up in a brilliant smile. "No, Sir," he replied, drawing
himself up majestically and looking me squarely in the eye, "we keep these
to show to inquisitive customers. _We only sell_ WHITE RATS!"
I fled. As I crossed the interminable length of floor that separated me
from the door I could feel that contemptuous smile rowelling my shrinking
vertebræ. Halfway across, the Blue Himalyan guinea-pig could have given me
three drachms and whipped me by sheer brute strength. As I sped towards the
door an attendant opened it. It was unnecessary. I could easily have crept
underneath it.