One Saturday night, not many years ago, there was a great crowd at the
end of Toston Street, Littlebury.
‘Nah then. Nah then. Wot’s all this abart?’ cried a policeman,
shouldering his way through the curious throng.
In the centre of the crowd was a small cleared space, in which was
seated, on the edge of the pavement, a strange being with dark blue hair
and greenish-tinted skin.
‘Nah then,’ said the policeman, pulling out his note-book, ‘wot’s all
this?’
The strange being, on whom the gift of tongues must have descended,
looked up and said: ‘Where am I?’
‘Come on. Wot’s the game, eh? Who are yer, eh? Wotcher doing ’ere?’
roared the policeman, his surprise making him more truculent than usual.
The strange being made no reply, but stared at the policeman, and then
looked gravely at the curious, jostling crowd.
‘I know! I know!’ he cried triumphantly, springing to his feet. ‘I’m
on--just a minute, I’ll remember--somewhere in the Solar system--I’ve
got it--the Earth! That’s it--the Earth! The fools ... giving me the
wrong directions. I want Morchas, in the Lunar system--the other side of
Pleiades. Fancy striking this place again! I’ve been on the Earth
before. I was murdered here for speaking the truth, ten thousand years
ago. Bah!’
With that he disappeared, to the great astonishment of all present.