Panky, on the other hand, was hardly human; he had thrown himself so earnestly into his work, that he had become a living lie. If he had had to play the part of Othello he would have blacked himself all over, and very likely smothered his Desdemona in good earnest. Hanky would hardly have blacked himself behind the ears, and his Desdemona would have been quite safe. Philosophers are like quails in the respect that they can take two or three flights of imagination, but rarely more without an interval of repose. The Professors had imagined my father to be a poacher and a ranger; they had imagined the quails to be wanted for Sunday’s banquet; they had imagined that they imagined (at least Panky had) that they were about to eat landrails; they were now exhausted, and cowered down into the grass of their ordinary conversation, paying no more attention to my father than if he had been a log. He, poor man, drank in every word they said, while seemingly intent on nothing but his quails, each one of which he cut up with a knife borrowed from Hanky. Two had been plucked already, so he laid these at once upon the clear embers. “I do not know what we are to do with ourselves,” said Hanky, “till Sunday. To-day is Thursday--it is the twenty-ninth, is it not? Yes, of course it is--Sunday is the first. Besides, it is on our permit. To-morrow we can rest; what, I wonder, can we do on Saturday? But the others will be here then, and we can tell them about the statues.” “Yes, but mind you do not blurt out anything about the landrails.” “I think we may tell Dr. Downie.” “Tell nobody,” said Panky. They then talked about the statues, concerning which it was plain that nothing was known. But my father soon broke in upon their conversation with the first instalment of quails, which a few minutes had sufficed to cook. “What a delicious bird a quail is,” said Hanky. “Landrail, Hanky, landrail,” said the other reproachfully. Having finished the first birds in a very few minutes they returned to the statues. “Old Mrs. Nosnibor,” said Panky, “says the Sunchild told her they were symbolic of ten tribes who had incurred the displeasure of the sun, his father.” I make no comment on my father’s feelings. “Of the sun! his fiddlesticks’ ends,” retorted Hanky. “He never called the sun his father. Besides, from all I have heard about him, I take it he was a precious idiot.” “O Hanky, Hanky! you will wreck the whole thing if you ever allow yourself to talk in that way.” “You are more likely to wreck it yourself, Panky, by never doing so. People like being deceived, but they like also to have an inkling of their own deception, and you never inkle them.” “The Queen,” said Panky, returning to the statues, “sticks to it that . . . ” “Here comes another bird,” interrupted Hanky; “never mind about the Queen.” The bird was soon eaten, whereon Panky again took up his parable about the Queen.