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.