Part 27

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He slept for his full hour and woke to find the Pygmy at his side. "It's in your centre gallery," she whispered. "I've slipped right through it twice."

"My centre gallery?" shouted Bartimæus. "My centre gallery? I'll have my centre gallery clear."

He started burrowing straightway.

"Don't rush!" the Pygmy screamed behind. "Don't rush! It's death to rush!"

And yet it was his rush that saved him.

The crumbled earth which still lay in the bolt-hole, melted before it. Part slipped to either side of him. Part massed before his plunging head, and, reaching the clear downshaft, dropped. With it there dropped a stone--a rounded half-inch stone, which danced along the gallery at the foot, cannoned from side to side of it, spun round and pulled up short, six inches in advance of him. His senses signalled something in his path. His senses signalled a clear passage through it, and a clear space beyond it. His senses urged more pace. So he crashed on. He stubbed his hands against a ring of iron: the ring gave way: there was a snap and two iron jaws had gripped his waist. But for the stone which jammed against the clinch of them, he must have met his death. And death itself had scarcely brought more torture. It was as though the half of him sped on while half remained behind. The back wrench left him senseless, and so the Pygmy found him. It was the pit-pat of her on his fur, the cobweb flutter of her questionings, which roused him back to life.

"I'm done," he muttered, "done as sure as sure."

"Not you!" she answered bravely, "the trap's not closed--not half. Wriggle, dear Uncle, wriggle!"

And Bartimæus wriggled.

He wriggled right; he wriggled left; he wriggled up; he wriggled down; he brought his hands to bear upon the iron and with a supreme twist he wriggled free.

Then he saw red.

He flung himself against the trap, and bit at it, and scratched at it, and shook it with his shoulders, and heaved and strained and wrenched at it, until it lay upturned upon the surface. He was convulsed with windy gusts of rage: nose-tip to tail he boiled; nor did he gain composure until the field was far behind, and he had reached the smooth-faced tube which led to his own fortress. Hand over foot he sped the length of it, dived down the U-shaped entrance hole, bobbed up again and climbed into his nest.

His troubles were not over.

His fortress, his own fortress, had been breached. The nest lay open to the day, windswept.

For a full hour he toiled repairing it, then, mole-tired, coiled to sleep.

SOMETHING ABOUT A CHAMÆLEON (NOVEMBER)

"''Tis green! 'tis green, Sir, I assure ye.' 'Green!' cries the other in a fury. 'Why, Sir, d'ye think I've lost my eyes?' ''Twere no great loss,' the friend replies, 'For if they always serve you thus, 'You'll find them but of little use.'"

I wonder how many of you know these lines? Not so very long ago most young people used to have to learn the poem from which they are taken, but I don't think the poem can be quite such a favourite as it used to be. Perhaps we are all getting to be such good naturalists that we know it is not quite true, for, though Chamæleons change their colours in a very wonderful way, they do not go red, white, and blue, in the way which the poem makes out.

I think I must tell you a little story about a Chamæleon, though some of you may perhaps have heard it before. An old lady once had a pet Chamæleon which she was very fond of, and which her manservant, John, used to look after. He was very fond of the Chamæleon too, and he used to amuse himself by putting it on to different coloured things in his room and watching it change colour. Well, one day, the old lady had a friend to tea, and she thought she would like to show her the Chamæleon, so she rang for John.

"John," she said, "bring in the Chamæleon."

John looked very sorry for himself. "Please ma'am," he said, "I can't."

"Can't?" said his mistress. "Why not?"

John looked still more confused. "Please, ma'am," he said, "he's gone."

"Why, how is that?" said the lady.

"Well, ma'am, I was playing with him, and I put him against my baize apron, and he turned green."

"Well?"

"And then I put him against the red tray, ma'am, and he turned red."