it's the cosmic kinetic optimist what comes through. Now these Wenuses
don't want to wipe _us_ all out. It's the women they want to
exterminate. They want to collar the men, and you'll see that after a
bit they'll begin catching us, picking the best, and feeding us up in
cages and men-coops."

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed; "but you _are_ a man of genius indeed," and
I flung my arms around his neck.

"Steady on!" he said; "don't be so--what is it?--ebullient."

"And what then?" I asked, when my emotion had somewhat subsided.

"Then," said he, "the others must be wary. You and I are mean little
cusses: we shall get off. They won't want _us_. And what do we do? Take
to the drains!" He looked at me triumphantly.

Quailing before his glory of intellect, I fainted.

"Are you sure?" I managed to gasp, on recovering consciousness.

"Yes," he said, "sewer. The drains are the places for you and me. Then
we shall play cricket--a narrow drain makes a wonderful pitch--and read
the good books--not poetry swipes, and stuff like that, but good books.
That's where men like you come in. Your books are the sort: _The Time
Machine_, and _Round the World in Eighty Days, The Wonderful Wisit_, and
_From the Earth to the Moon_, and----"

"Stop!" I cried, nettled at his stupidity. "You are confusing another
author and myself."