PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 100.
February 21, 1891.
MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS.
NO. XIII.--THROUGH SPACE ON A FORMULA.
(_BY_ RULES SPURN, _AUTHOR OF "GOWNED AND CURLED IN EIGHTY STAYS,"
"TWENTY THOUSAND TWEAKS SUNDERED THE FLEA," "A TEA WITH ICE," "A
DOCTOR ON ROCKS AND PEPPERMINT," "A CAB-FARE FROM 'THE SUN,'" "THE
CONFIDENCE OF THE CONTINENT," "ATTORNEY TO DISSENTERS UP AT PERTH,"
"LIEUTENANT SCATTERCASH," &C._)
["This," writes the Author, "is one of my best and freshest,
although on a moderate computation it must be my thousand and
first, or so. But I have really lost count. Still it's grand
to talk in large numbers of leagues, miles, vastnesses,
secrets, mysteries, and impossible sciences. Some pedants
imagine that I write in French. That's absurd, for every
schoolboy knows (and lots of them have told me) that I write
only in English or in American. I have some highly dried
samples of vivid adventure ready for immediate consumption.
Twopence more and up goes the donkey, up, up, up to be
a satellite to an undiscovered star. Brave Donkey! I
follow."--R.S.]
CHAPTER I.
The iceberg was moving. There was no doubt of it. Moving with
a terrible sinuous motion. Occasionally an incautious ironclad
approached like a foolish hen, and pecked at the moving mass. Then
there was a slight crash, followed by a mild convulsion of masts, and
spars, and iron-plates, and 100-ton guns, then two or three gurgles
and all was still. The iceberg passed on smiling in triumph, and
British Admirals wrote to the _Times_ to declare that they had
known from the first that H.M.S. _Thunderbomb_ had been so faultily
constructed, as to make a contest with a hen-coop a certainty for the
hen-coop.
[Illustration]
And still the iceberg was moving. Within its central chamber sat a
venerable man, lightly clad in nankeen breeches, a cap of liberty,
and a Liberty silk shirt. He was writing cabalistically. He did not
know why, nor did he know what "cabalistically" meant. This was his
punishment. Why was he to be punished? Those who read shall hear.
The walls of the chamber were fitted with tubes, and electric wires,
and knobs and buttons. A bright fire burned on the hearth. The thick
Brussels carpet was littered with pot-boilers, all fizzing, and
sputtering, and steaming, like so many young Curates at a Penny
Reading. Suddenly the Philosopher looked up. He spoke to himself.
"Everything is ready," he said, and pressed a button by his side.
There was a sound as of a Continent expectorating, a distant nose
seemed to twang, the door opened, and a tall lantern-jawed gentleman,
wearing a goat-beard and an expression of dauntless cunning, stepped
into the room.
"I guess you were waiting round for me," said Colonel ZEDEKIAH D.
GOBANG (for it was indeed he), and sat down in an empty armchair, as
if nothing had happened.
The Philosopher appeared not to notice. "Next character, please,"
he said, pulling out a long stop, and placing his square leg on the
wicket which gave admission to his laboratory, while he waited for the
entrance of the Third Man. There came a murmur like the buzz of a ton
of blasting powder, in a state of excitement. A choir of angels seemed
to whisper "Beefsteak and Pale Ale," as Lord JOHN BULLPUP dashed,
without a trace of emotion, into the room, and sneezed three times
without stopping to wipe his boots on the mat.
"One more," said the Philosopher. He hurled himself, feet first, at
the ceiling, knocked his head against the floor, and called down the
tube. "_J'y suis!_" came the answer, and the typical, light-hearted
Frenchman, M. le Docteur REVERSI, with his thousand thunders, and his
blue lower chest, tripped jauntily up to the other three. "And now,"
remarked the Philosopher, "we have got the lot complete. The story can
start. Hurry up! Hark forrard! _En avant!_"