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World savage on a warthog, does resemble some of my less pleasant nightmares.”
    “Put up your dukes, Tinface, them’s fightin’ words.”
    Chuting-Payne snugged his white gloves for a more precise fit. “Tell your man, Cowperthwait, that the last fellow who engaged in fisticuffs with me is now so much wormsmeat, and that he would be well-advised to steer clear of his betters. Gunputty—fetch the carriage. Mister Cowperthwait, farewell for the nonce. I sense our paths will cross again.”
    In a moment Lord Chuting-Payne’s phaeton was rumbling away. Cowperthwait felt his wits gradually returning, and was mortified that he had let Chuting-Payne treat himself and McGroaty in such a cavalier fashion.
    Seeming similarly embarrassed, McGroaty said, “I thought you said you done fixed that cane.”
    “It acted precisely as I wished,” extemporized Cowperthwait. “Had it struck that lascar, it would have knocked him senseless.”
    “I suggest more diereck tactics in the future, Coz. That air Gunputty don’t seem the type to be stymied by no flyin’ baton.”
    “Suggestion acknowledged, Nails.”

4
    A WOMAN CALLED OTTO
    C OWPERTHWAIT SPREAD MINT jelly across his scone. The transparent greenish substance reminded him of the egg mass of the Hellbender. He still recalled the shivery thrill he had felt upon receiving the crate from his American compatriot, S. J. Gould of Harvard, containing the glass vials packed with fresh Hellbender eggs, nestled snugly in wooden cradles set in sawdust and straw for their transatlantic journey. The many nights of feverish experimentation, the innumerable abortions and teratological nightmares which had to be destroyed, the refinements in technique and purification, all resulting in the unique miracle that was Victoria. . . . A wave of sadness and nostalgia crossed over him. Would he ever see his progeny again, or would she remain forever immured inside Buckingham Palace, a slave to the needs of the state?
    The only solution lay in finding the real Victoria, a creature no less fabulous than her salamandrine counterpart. Where, oh where could she be? In the three days since their visit to Horseapple’s, Cowperthwait had racked his brain for any likely burrow she might have found, all to no avail. Even at this moment, Cowperthwait had McGroaty out scouring the city for any possible clue, however wild and far-fetched.
    A knock resounded on his study door. Cowperthwait tugged down his Naturopathic corset beneath his dressing gown, adjusted the silk scarf around his neck, and called out, “Yes, who is it?”
    The door swung open and McGroaty entered, propelling a scurvy character before him. The fellow clutched a battered cap with both hands in front of him, high up on his chest. This position for his headgear was necessitated by his having a withered right arm only a few inches in length. In compensation, his whole left arm was an overdeveloped bulk of muscle.
    “Coz, this here’s Shortarm. He runs a sewing shop down in the Seven Dials. Shorty, tell the guv’nor what you told me.”
    Shortarm attempted to compose his features into a semblance of innocence, but succeeded only in looking like a fox with chicken feathers stuck to its lips. “Wurl, it’s like this, see. I got me a daughter, a lurvely gell—”
    “He fathered the poor thing on his older daughter, so you might say she’s his granddaughter too,” interrupted McGroaty.
    Cowperthwait winced. “Yes, go on.”
    “Wurl, she’s all of six, so’s I figgered she was old enough to start earning her keep. Otherwise, she was gonna find herself eatin’ air pie, if you get my meanin’. So I puts her to work in the shop, stitchin’ up breeches—”
    This time it was Cowperthwait who interrupted. “You know, of course, that in so doing you were in direct violation of Lord Althorp’s Factory Act, regarding the employment of minors.”
    Shortarm wrinkled his brow in genuine bafflement. “Can’t say as how I ever heard of no