“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 vertebrae.  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.

ALGOL.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Magistrate. “DO YOU WANT A LAWYER TO DEFEND YOU?”

Prisoner. “NOT PARTICULARLY, SIR.”

Magistrate. “WELL, WHAT DO YOU PROPOSE TO DO ABOUT THE CASE?”