"No," he said, "I've never been to Venice."

"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. Among them I noticed Jubal Gregg
the butcher (who fortunately did not observe me--we owed him a trifle of
eighteen shillings, and had since taken to Canterbury lamb from the
Colonial Meat Stores), and a jobbing gardener, whom I had not recently
paid. I forget his name, but he was lame in the left leg: a ruddy man.

Quite a crowd surrounded the Crinoline when we arrived, and in addition
to the match-vendors already mentioned, there was now Giuseppe
Mandolini, from Leather Lane, with an accordion and a monkey. Monkeys
are of course forbidden in Kensington Gardens, and how he eluded the