The Centipede.
By Ian Hay.
(Continued from page 681.)
had just been vacated by a rather despondent-looking person in a dinner jacket, who, when I entered the room, had been engaged, for no reason that I could divine, in making uncouth noises to himself. Several days afterwards it occurred to me that he must have been the Farmyard Impersonator.
On the table itself, exactly opposite to me, stood a curious-looking box-like structure, into which I was directed to address my remarks. As soon as I was ready, the young man in charge of the proceedings leaned over and announced into the apparatus:—
'London calling! For this week's Science Talk I have pleasure in announcing that we have secured Professor Erasmus Worthington, the well-known entomologist, who will now lecture to you upon Insects I Have Known.'
He withdrew his head and signed to me to begin.
'That is not the title of my lecture,' I said, a little sharply. 'Will you kindly restate it correctly?'
The young man immediately exhibited symptoms of violent distress, and from the excited pantomime in which he indulged I soon realized that my audience were already listening, and that my reproof had been of a less private nature than I had intended. So I merely signalled to him to leave me (which he did) and began my discourse.
It was listened to throughout in complete and breathless silence. Rarely have I addressed a more attentive audience, and rarely have I become more absorbed in my own words. By the time that the young man had returned, bringing with him a printed sheet which I took to contain the Time, News, and Weather Forecast, and had begun hovering about me in a manner which plainly indicated that he wished me to conclude. Professor Pepper had entirely slipped from my memory.
However, no harm was done. As I rose to my feet, a blue folded slip slid from among my papers and dropped upon the table before me. It was the Professor's precious secret. I immediately sat down again.
'Before I leave you,' I announced, raising my voice purposely to indicate to the young man that I was not to be hurried, 'I have to fulfil the extremely pleasant duty of reading to you a communication from a colleague of mine in the world of Research whose name, I feel sure, will be familiar and respected among many of you. Professor Joseph Pepper, the Old-Established Specialist—I was reading from the blue slip now—of Sheffield—here I gave his address—sends greetings to all clients, old new, thanks them for past support in good times and bad, and begs to inform them that The Centipede is a dead snip for the 2.30 at Windsor to-morrow.'
I need hardly say that this unexpected rigmarole conveyed no meaning to me whatsoever. But, after all, Professor Pepper probably knew his own business best; and as his disciples were mainly natives of Yorkshire, I concluded that he had composed his message in the form most easily intelligible to their understanding. Having performed the favour asked, I tried to allow the whole incident to fade from my memory, but I am bound to admit that the excited, not to, say querulous, behaviour of the young man in the Studio filled me with misgivings.
Judge of my stupefaction, then, when this morning, two days after my lecture, I received by the first post an envelope containing Treasury notes to the value of twelve pounds ten shillings, accompanied by the following incomprehensible communication:
Dear Prof.,
When I said you was on, of course I meant the odds to a pound. Of course you saw the result—the length of the street! Centipede's S.P, was 100-8—and very nice too. I enclose £12 10s. with best thanks and comps. for your esteemed assistance.
Your brother.
Professor Joe Pepper.
The Well-Known Expert.
N.B.—Another Big Winner next Monday!
As I say, the whole affair is a complete mystery to me. However, I have just received a telegram from my grand-nephew, Algernon Sprigge, in which he announces his intention of coming to spend the week-end with me. I shall refer the matter to him, but I doubt if he will be able to make anything of it.
