"Grand! You may have the grandeur. It's worse than being a criminal. I can't walk out unless it's pitch dark or very early morning, because if I did the people would see me free—as you are doing—I have to live in a narrow stuffy carriage. I'm ill, too. Giants are always ill."
Janet was full of sympathy. "We're so sorry," she said. "And here's our money—it isn't fair to be seeing you free." And she held out sixpence.
"Oh, no," said the giant. "I didn't mean that. I like to see you and talk. There's too few people to talk to naturally. Most of them ask silly questions all the time, especially the doctors. If you want to pay to see me, you must come to the fair. I shall be on view to-night."
"But we're going the other way," said Robert.
"I'm very sorry," said the giant. "I should have looked forward to seeing you."
"What's your name?" Gregory asked.
"My real name is William Steward," said the giant, "but they call me the Human Colossus."
"Is there anything we could do for you?"
Janet asked. "We have some papers; would you like them?"
"No," said the giant; "I don't read much. There is one thing I'd like, but I don't suppose you have it. A little tobacco. I'm clean out of it, and I'd like a smoke."