We left the Rev. BANG MCSAXPENCE (whose successor, by the way, was
killed and eaten six weeks later), taking with us the little ADOLPHE (a
most invaluable butt for our buffooneries), and voyaged into the
Unknown. We got into a boat, and throwing overboard some niggers to pick
up dead swans, they were immediately (much to our amusement) drowned.
This made us think, and we came to the conclusion that they must have
been carried to death by a current. In a moment our canoe began to fly
along as if seized with a mighty hand, and we were in a tunnel. The
water hurried us along, and we had scarcely time to notice that we were
passing now "Baker Street Station," now "Portland Road," now "King's
Cross," when we were close to a gigantic lily of fire that nearly
roasted us. We passed, got to some rocks, and were trying to get a cab,
or at least a fly, when we suddenly came across a number of spiders.
They were dreadful creatures. They foamed at the mouth, screamed at one
another, and devoured their invalid relations.
Here I should like to pause to write something _really_ terrible about
these spiders, but must hurry on, as there is still a deal of killing to
be done before I get to the end of my narrative. Enough to say I may
return to those spiders some of these days, and out of their webs spin a
three-volume novel of unusual grimness and humour.
Shortly after this we emerged from the tunnel (passing by a place called
Gloucester Road), and found ourselves in the land of the White-eyed
Kaffirs.[C]