All in vain; Oh-Oh was an antiquary.

Turning in despair, Babbalanja spied a heap of worm-eaten parchment covers, and many clippings and parings.  And whereas the rolls of manuscripts did smell like unto old cheese; so these relics did marvelously resemble the rinds of the same.

Turning over this pile, Babbalanja lighted upon something that restored his good humor.  Long he looked it over delighted; but bethinking him, that he must have dragged to day some lost work of the collection, and much desirous of possessing it, he made bold again to ply Oh-Oh; offering a tempting price for his discovery.

Glancing at the title—­“A Happy Life"-the old man cried—­“Oh, rubbish! rubbish! take it for nothing.”  And Babbalanja placed it in his vestment.

The catacombs surveyed, and day-light gained, we inquired the way to Ji-Ji’s, also a collector, but of another sort; one miserly in the matter of teeth, the money of Mardi.

At the mention of his name, Oh-Oh flew out into scornful philippics upon the insanity of that old dotard, who hoarded up teeth, as if teeth were of any use, but to purchase rarities.  Nevertheless, he pointed out our path; following which, we crossed a meadow.

Chapter XX
Babbalanja Quotes From An Antique Pagan; And Earnestly Presses It Upon
The Company, That What He Recites Is Not His, But Another’s

Journeying on, we stopped by a gurgling spring, in a beautiful grove; and here, we stretched out on the grass, and our attendants unpacked their hampers, to provide us a lunch.

But as for that Babbalanja of ours, he must needs go and lunch by himself, and, like a cannibal, feed upon an author; though in other respects he was not so partial to bones.

Bringing forth the treasure he had buried in his bosom, he was soon buried in it; and motionless on his back, looked as if laid out, to keep an appointment with his undertaker.

“What, ho!  Babbalanja!” cried Media from under a tree, “don’t be a duck, there, with your bill in the air; drop your metaphysics, man, and fall to on the solids.  Do you hear?”

“Come, philosopher,” said Mohi, handling a banana, “you will weigh more after you have eaten.”

“Come, list, Babbalanja,” cried Yoomy, “I am going to sing.”

“Up! up!  I say,” shouted Media again.  “But go, old man, and wake him:  rap on his head, and see whether he be in.”

Mohi, obeying, found him at home; and Babbalanja started up.

“In Oro’s name, what ails you, philosopher?  See you Paradise, that you look so wildly?”