Letters From the Dark Continent
Entwhistle my dear old thing,
It is my earnest desire that this missive finds you in good spirits, considerably better spirits than your humble correspondent. As you may recall, I have been exploring the Dark Continent for some months now and along the way have encountered a good many Very Strange Things, Thrilling Adventures, Perilous Dangers and the odd bout of 'Jungle Tummy'. As we have traipsed and hacked our way through the dense foliage, our trusty porters and bearers accompanying us and ably carrying our supplies, we have made Amazing Discoveries. Alas, though, of the Lesser-Spotted Gryphon there is not a sign.
The incident of which I write to you occurred two days ago. A near-disastrous calamitous occurrence and, as one would have been willing to wager, it was that old duffer Carruthers again. The bumbling nincompoop lost his footing and slipped. Unwilling to slow our progress, I sent the party on ahead while I remained to pull Carruthers to his feet. As I reached down my hand to assist him, he grasped hold of it and promptly slithered further down the slope onto which he had stumbled. The buffoon took me with him and in no time were rolling and cartwheeling downwards towards the N'congo river. As I tumbled I noticed the avaricious eyes and mouths of crocodiles awaiting us at the bottom. I cursed Carruthers for a fool and made my peace with our Lord.
Just when all hope seemed lost, when the crocodiles' teeth loomed large (and when - I am ashamed to have to report - Carruthers soiled himself) a strange yodelling manifested itself. Yet the sound came from a yodeller unlike any I have yet encountered. Instead of the usual paraphernalia one would associate with yodellers, this chap was sporting only a loin cloth. He swung on a vine and grabed hold of myself and Carruthers with one hand and swung us to safety. What phenomenal strength! What athletic prowess!
We owed him our lives. We attempted to thank him, yet he could not speak the Queen's English - not a bally word. Naturally, we shot the blighter in the foot, bound him and sealed him in a cage. We intend to return him to London and show him in a travelling fair. Should make us a pretty penny or two, what!
Pip-pip and God Save Queen Victoria.
It is my earnest desire that this missive finds you in good spirits, considerably better spirits than your humble correspondent. As you may recall, I have been exploring the Dark Continent for some months now and along the way have encountered a good many Very Strange Things, Thrilling Adventures, Perilous Dangers and the odd bout of 'Jungle Tummy'. As we have traipsed and hacked our way through the dense foliage, our trusty porters and bearers accompanying us and ably carrying our supplies, we have made Amazing Discoveries. Alas, though, of the Lesser-Spotted Gryphon there is not a sign.
The incident of which I write to you occurred two days ago. A near-disastrous calamitous occurrence and, as one would have been willing to wager, it was that old duffer Carruthers again. The bumbling nincompoop lost his footing and slipped. Unwilling to slow our progress, I sent the party on ahead while I remained to pull Carruthers to his feet. As I reached down my hand to assist him, he grasped hold of it and promptly slithered further down the slope onto which he had stumbled. The buffoon took me with him and in no time were rolling and cartwheeling downwards towards the N'congo river. As I tumbled I noticed the avaricious eyes and mouths of crocodiles awaiting us at the bottom. I cursed Carruthers for a fool and made my peace with our Lord.
Just when all hope seemed lost, when the crocodiles' teeth loomed large (and when - I am ashamed to have to report - Carruthers soiled himself) a strange yodelling manifested itself. Yet the sound came from a yodeller unlike any I have yet encountered. Instead of the usual paraphernalia one would associate with yodellers, this chap was sporting only a loin cloth. He swung on a vine and grabed hold of myself and Carruthers with one hand and swung us to safety. What phenomenal strength! What athletic prowess!
We owed him our lives. We attempted to thank him, yet he could not speak the Queen's English - not a bally word. Naturally, we shot the blighter in the foot, bound him and sealed him in a cage. We intend to return him to London and show him in a travelling fair. Should make us a pretty penny or two, what!
Pip-pip and God Save Queen Victoria.