The Centipede
By IAN HAY. With illustrations by George Morrow.
The whole affair is a complete mystery to me, I wish my grand-nephew, Algernon Sprigge, would pay me one of his periodical visits; he might be able to elucidate it. He is a Gentleman Cadet of the Royal Military College, Sandhurst, and appears to possess a knowledge of the world quite surprising in one of his tender years. Besides, he is the owner of a clear and penetrating voice, which makes it an agreeable matter to converse with him. Not that I am so very deaf, but most young people seem to me nowadays to mumble in the most slovenly fashion.
My name is Erasmus Worthington, and I am an entomologist. In order, to render my identity quite clear, I may add that I am the author of Notes on the Thorax of the Hessian Fly, and The Life of the Weevil. These works, however, were produced in my youth, when a man's interests are less settled than in later life; for the last thirty years I have confined myself almost entirely to microscopic observation (and tabulation) of the functions of the Lesser Coleoptera. Consequently, I have lost touch with the trend of modern thought in other directions. Many of my most distinguished contemporaries in the scientific world are but mere names to me, and except for an occasional visit to the Natural History Museum in South Kensington, I seldom go outside my house in Tavistock Square.
This may account for the fact that when Professor Pepper called upon me I had never heard of him. His visiting-card gave me no enlightenment. It was a rather large card—but possibly fashions in these things have changed during the last half century—and bore the device, in black lettering picked out with red:—
'Prof. Joe Pepper.
The Old-Established Specialist,'
followed by an address in Sheffield. I had no desire to receive him, for I was much occupied at the moment. I had rather foolishly allowed myself to be cajoled into giving what is called a Broadcast Lecture. I know nothing of these matters, but my old friend. Sir Sheardley Pott, of the Egyptological Section of the British Museum, had represented to me that it was my duty as the outstanding authority on my subject to give the world the benefit of my knowledge; and I had yielded.
On the afternoon in question I was engaged in putting the finishing touches to my manuscript, which I was to read aloud at the (I think) rather extraordinary hour of 6.35 p.m, at the headquarters of the British Broadcasting Company, which body is apparently responsible for the proper dissemination of what is known as broadcast matter. I gather that the instrument employed is some form of universal wireless telephone; but as I say, I know nothing of items in a somewhat protracted scheme of these things, of these things. (I once endeavoured, some years ago, to use an ordinary telephone, in Charing Cross Railway Station—I had momentarily forgotten where I was going, and was endeavouring, at the suggestion of a ticket clerk, to communicate with some one who might know—but after depositing practically all my small silver in the box beside the instrument without achieving any tangible result I abandoned the attempt, and registered a determination to avoid such crude mechanisms in future.) However, I had been assured that the process of broadcasting of broadcasting was quite simple, and that my privacy would be assured in all respects.
A non-free image has been removed from this page.
The removed content can be viewed in the original document https://genome.ch.bbc.co.uk/page/283baa4a34804ffaafec484473c9df56?page=13.
It was nearly five o'clock, and, as I say. Prof. Pepper's call was most inopportune. However, although I knew nothing of Sheffield University, I felt that common courtesy demanded that I should receive its representative.
My housekeeper showed the Professor in. I am a little dim-sighted, but he appeared to me to be dressed rather loudly for a man of our calling. He shook hands with me in an extremely ceremonious manner, and I offered him a chair. He thanked me, and seated himself upon the very edge of it, having placed his hat, which was round and white, underneath.
I then asked him to state his business. He replied by producing a copy of a morning paper and pointing to a paragraph.
I suppose that's thee. Professor?' he said, in a husky voice. From his mode of address I took him to be of old Quaker stock, which predisposed me a little more favourably towards him.
I found my spectacles and read the paragraph. It appeared to be an announcement of the broadcasting programme for the evening. I realized for the first time that my lecture was merely to be one of a series of entertainment. I noticed that I was to be preceded at 6.25 by Mr. Alf Roper, in Farmyard Imitations, followed at seven o'clock by Time. News, and Weather Forecast. While not particularly impressed by the company which I found myself, I was genuinely annoyed to find that in some person unknown had altered, the title of my lecture from A Few Observations upon the Habits of the Lesser Coleoptera to Insects I Have Known.
Professor Pepper placed his thumb upon the notice.
That's thee, isn't it. Prof.?' he repeated. That's thee that's going to broadcast about insects?' He spoke with a peculiar intonation, which I took to be a form of the Yorkshire dialect.
I replied, with a touch of formality, that I proposed to offer some observations upon the habits of the Lesser Coleoptera, and asked him if he were an entomologist too.
He took no notice of my question.
'I were up in London for the day,' he said, and that little par caught my eye; so I made up my mind there and then to come and ask thee a favour. I've always been friendly with professors, ever since I had a good turn done me by old Professor Maggs. I was only a lad, and he was at the top of the tree. We were both with Lord George Sanger at the time; I was just a nipper in the stables, while the Professor was the biggest draw in the show. What he couldn't do with fleas you wouldn't believe; draw little carriages, and everything! But he always had a kind word for me; and once he gave me a pound, and never asked for it back; and once he got me off a hiding. I've always had a soft spot for professors since then. Professors is all right!'
A great deal of this singular harangue, delivered, as it was, in an almost unintelligible dialect, was, I fear, entirely lost on me; but as my visitor appeared to be a
