Professor got out a large red silk handkerchief, and wiped his eyes. ‘I wish I could help you, dear children!’ he said. ‘But what can I do?’
‘We know the way to Fairyland—where Father’s gone—quite well,’ said Sylvie: ‘if only the Gardener would let us out.’
‘Wo’n’t he open the door for you?’ said the Professor.
‘Not for us,’ said Sylvie: ‘but I’m sure he would for you. Do come and ask him, Professor dear!’
‘I’ll come this minute!’ said the Professor.
Bruno sat up and dried his eyes. ‘Isn’t he kind, Mister Sir?’
‘He is indeed,’ said I. But the Professor took no notice of my remark. He had put on a beautiful cap with a long tassel, and was selecting one of the Other Professor’s walking-sticks, from a stand in the corner of the room. ‘A thick stick in one’s hand makes people respectful,’ he was saying to himself. ‘Come along, dear children!’ And we all went out into the garden together.
‘I shall address him, first of all,’ the Professor explained as we went along, ‘with a few playful remarks on the weather. I shall then question him about the Other Professor. This will have a double advantage. First, it will open the conversation (you ca’n’t even drink a bottle of wine without opening it first): and secondly, if he’s seen the Other Professor, we shall find him that way: and, if he hasn’t, we sha’n’t.’
On our way, we passed the target, at which Uggug had been made to shoot during the Ambassador’s visit.
‘See!’ said the Professor, pointing out a hole in the middle of the bull’s-eye. ‘His Imperial Fatness had only one shot at it; and he went in just here!’
Bruno carefully examined the hole. ‘Couldn’t go in there,’ he whispered to me. ‘He are too fat!’
We had no sort of difficulty in finding the Gardener. Though he was hidden from us by some trees, that harsh voice of his served to direct us; and, as we drew nearer, the words of his song became more and more plainly audible:
‘He thought he saw an Albatross
That fluttered round the lamp:
He looked again, and found it was
A Penny-Postage-Stamp.
“You’d best be getting home,” he said:
“The nights are very damp!”’ [•]
‘Would it be afraid of catching cold?’ said Bruno.
‘If it got very damp,’ Sylvie suggested, ‘it might stick to something, you know.’
‘And that somefin would have to go by the post, what ever it was!’ Bruno eagerly exclaimed. ‘Suppose it was a cow! Wouldn’t it be dreadful for the other things!’
‘And all these things happened to him,’ said the Professor. ‘That’s what makes the song so interesting.’
‘He must have had a very curious life,’ said Sylvie.
‘You may say that!’ the Professor heartily rejoined.
‘Of course she may!’ cried Bruno.
By this time we had come up to the Gardener, who was standing on one leg, as usual, and busily employed in watering a bed of flowers with an empty watering-can.
‘It hasn’t got no water in it!’ Bruno explained to him, pulling his sleeve to attract his attention.
‘It’s lighter to hold,’ said the Gardener. ‘A lot of water in it makes one’s arms ache.’ And he went on with his work, singing softly to himself
‘The nights are very damp!’
‘In digging things out of the ground—which you probably do now and then,’ the Professor began in a loud voice; ‘in making things into heaps—which no doubt you often do; and in kicking things about with one heel—which you seem never to leave off doing; have you ever happened to notice another Professor something like me, but different?’
‘Never!’ shouted the Gardener, so loudly and violently that we all drew back in alarm. ‘There ain’t such a thing!’
‘We will try a less exciting topic,’ the Professor mildly remarked to the children. ‘You were asking—’
‘We asked him to let us through the garden-door,’ said Sylvie: ‘but he wouldn’t: but perhaps he would for you!’
The Professor put the request, very humbly and courteously.
‘I wouldn’t mind letting you out,’ said the Gardener. ‘But I mustn’t open the door for children. D’you think I’d disobey the Rules? Not for one-and-sixpence!’
The Professor cautiously produced a couple of shillings.
‘That’ll do it!’ the Gardener shouted, as he hurled the watering-can across the flower-bed, and produced a handful of keys—one large one, and a number of small ones.
‘But look here, Professor dear!’ whispered Sylvie. ‘He needn’t open the door for us, at all. We can go out with you.’
‘True, dear child!’ the Professor thankfully replied, as he replaced the coins in his pocket. ‘That saves two shillings!’ And he took the children’s hands, that they might all go out together when the door was opened. This, however, did not seem a very likely event, though the Gardener patiently tried all the small keys, over and over again.
At last the Professor ventured on a gentle suggestion. ‘Why not try the large one? I have often observed that a door unlocks much more nicely with its own key.’
The very first trial of the large key proved a success: the Gardener opened the door, and held out his hand for the money.
The Professor shook his head. ‘You are acting by Rule,’ he explained, ‘in opening the door for me. And now it’s open, we are going out by Rule—the Rule of Three.’
The Gardener looked puzzled, and let us go out; but, as he locked the door behind us, we heard him singing thoughtfully to himself
‘He thought he saw a Garden-Door
That opened with a key:
He looked again, and found it was
A Double Rule of Three:
“And all its mystery,” he said,
“Is clear as day to me!”’ [•]
‘I
