“Of course I’ll read it to you,” she cried. And she proceeded to recount the wonders of “Bashford’s Great and Only Menagerie and Hippodrome” as described by the poster. Most of the high-flown language was, of course, quite beyond the boy’s understanding, but he sat with round eyes fixed on her face till she had finished. It was a minute before he could speak.
“What is that thing?” he asked at last, pointing to a great, unwieldy beast with wide-open mouth.
“That’s a hippopotamus.”
“A—a what?” he asked wonderingly.
“A hippopotamus—a river-horse.”
“A river-horse,” he repeated; and his eyes grew rounder than ever. “A horse what lives in th’ river? But it ain’t a horse,” he added, looking at it again to make certain. “It ain’t nothin’ like a horse.”
“No,” said Miss Andrews, smiling, “it’s not a horse. That’s only a name for it. See, here it is,” and she pointed to the line below the picture. “‘The Hippopotamus, the Great African River Horse.’”
He gazed at the line a moment in silence. Then he sighed.
“I must go,” he said, and reached out his hand for the bill.
“But you haven’t told me your name yet,” she protested. “What is your name?”