Every one has read the monograph, I believe that is
the right word, of my dear friend, Professor Higgs—Ptolemy
Higgs to give him his full name—descriptive
of the tableland of Mur in North Central Africa, of
the ancient underground city in the mountains which
surrounded it, and of the strange tribe of Abyssinian
Jews, or rather their mixed descendants, by whom it
is, or was, inhabited. I say every one advisedly,
for although the public which studies such works is
usually select, that which will take an interest in
them, if the character of a learned and pugnacious
personage is concerned, is very wide indeed. Not
to mince matters, I may as well explain what I mean
at once.
Professor Higgs’s rivals and enemies, of whom
either the brilliancy of his achievements or his somewhat
abrupt and pointed methods of controversy seem to
have made him a great many, have risen up, or rather
seated themselves, and written him down—well,
an individual who strains the truth. Indeed,
only this morning one of these inquired, in a letter
to the press, alluding to some adventurous traveller
who, I am told, lectured to the British Association
several years ago, whether Professor Higgs did not,
in fact, ride across the desert to Mur, not upon a
camel, as he alleged, but upon a land tortoise of
extraordinary size.
The innuendo contained in this epistle has made the
Professor, who, as I have already hinted, is not by
nature of a meek disposition, extremely angry.
Indeed, notwithstanding all that I could do, he left
his London house under an hour ago with a whip of
hippopotamus hide such as the Egyptians call a koorbash,
purposing to avenge himself upon the person of his
defamer. In order to prevent a public scandal,
however, I have taken the liberty of telephoning to
that gentleman, who, bold and vicious as he may be
in print, is physically small and, I should say, of
a timid character, to get out of the way at once.
To judge from the abrupt fashion in which our conversation
came to an end, I imagine that the hint has been taken.
At any rate, I hope for the best, and, as an extra
precaution, have communicated with the lawyers of my
justly indignant friend.
The reader will now probably understand that I am
writing this book, not to bring myself or others before
the public, or to make money of which I have no present
need, or for any purpose whatsoever, except to set
down the bare and actual truth. In fact, so many
rumours are flying about as to where we have been
and what befell us that this has become almost necessary.
As soon as I laid down that cruel column of gibes and
insinuations to which I have alluded—yes,
this very morning, before breakfast, this conviction
took hold of me so strongly that I cabled to Oliver,
Captain Oliver Orme, the hero of my history, if it
has any particular hero, who is at present engaged
upon what must be an extremely agreeable journey round
the world—asking his consent. Ten
minutes since the answer arrived from Tokyo. Here
it is:
