Idos of Yokohama and Pegadiadis of Athens.

The storm burst upon us six weeks later, about the time of the summer
sales. As Wenus approached opposition, Dr. Jelli of Guava set the wires
of the astronomical exchange palpitating with the intelligence of a huge
explosion of laughing gas moving risibly towards the earth. He compared
it to a colossal cosmic cachinnation. And, in the light of subsequent
events, the justice of the comparison will commend itself to all but the
most sober readers.

Had it not been for my chance meeting with Swears, the eminent
astronomer and objurgationist, this book would never have been written.
He asked me down to our basement, which he rents from me as an
observatory, and in spite of all that has happened since I still
remember our wigil very distinctly. (I spell it with a "w" from an
inordinate affection for that letter.) Swears moved about, invisible but
painfully audible to my naked ear. The night was very warm, and I was
very thirsty. As I gazed through the syphon, the little star seemed
alternately to expand and contract, and finally to assume a sort of dual
skirt, but that was simply because my eye was tired. I remember how I
sat under the table with patches of green and crimson swimming before my
eyes. Grotesque and foolish as this may seem to the sober reader, it is
absolutely true.

Swears watched till one, and then he gave it up. He was full of
speculations about the condition of Wenus. Swears' language was
extremely sultry.

"The chances against anything lady-like on Wenus," he said, "are a
million to one."