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I saw, however, that Pendriver was using his spade to cleave his way to the Wenuses; and Swears was standing on the brink of the pit transfixed with adoration; while a young shopman from Woking, in town for the day, completely lost his head. It came bobbing over the grass to my very feet; but I remembered the experiences of Pollock and the Porroh man and let it go.
"Venus!" I bawled, "Venus!" "Yes," said Pendriver, "Venus. What about it?" "Why," I said, "there are people from Venus in Kensington Gardens." "Venus in Kensington Gardens!" he replied. "No, it's not Venus; it's the Queen." I began to get angry. "Not the statue," I shouted. "Wisitors from Wenus. Make copy. Come and see! Copy! Copy!" The word "copy" galvanised him, and he came, spade and all.
We quickly crossed the Park once more. Pendriver lives to the west of it, in Strathmore Gardens, and has a special permit from his landlord to dig. We did not, for sufficient reasons, converse much. Many persons were now hastening towards the strange object. I forget his name, but he was lame in the left leg: a ruddy man.
"Good heavens!" said Swears, "there's a horse in it. Can't you hear? He must be half-roasted." So saying he rushed off, fraught with pity, to inform the Secretary of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals; while I hurried away to tell Pendriver the journalist, proposing in my own mind, I recollect, that he should give me half the profits on the article.
Pendriver the journalist, so called to distinguish him from Hoopdriver the cyclist, was working in his garden. He does the horticultural column for one of the large dailies. "You've read about the disturbances in Venus?" I cried. "What!" said Pendriver. He is as deaf as the Post, the paper he writes for. "You've read about Venus?" I asked again. "No," he said, "I've never been to Venice."
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