After which threat he flew off.
III
I may as well say at once that on the August Bank Holiday of the present year I was a camel—one that carries children about. How many enjoyed exercise at my expense I cannot say; I only know that the tortures of the day appeared endless. I had lived a thousand years of physical anguish before the sun set. Then I was marched back to my stall with a sore hump and a sick heart. The ingenuity of my tormentor was more than human. I shall shudder to my dying day when I hear esoteric Buddhism mentioned, and it ages me even now to read or hear the name of Robinson. After the camel episode I had comparative leisure as a kangaroo, and then, upon the sudden arrival of an Australian ornithorhynchus at the Gardens, Robinson transferred me to this uncanny nightmare. On the occasion of my becoming the infant hippopotamus he accosted me again in the shape of the new giraffe, and told me that all the doctors, save one only, now considered that I was a dead man.
“There’s been a deal of correspondence in the Lancet,” he said, “and the consensus of scientific opinion now inclines to the conclusion that you have passed away. The Directors of the Westminster Aquarium wanted you for a side-show, but your executors declined to accept the terms offered.”
“I should hope so!” I answered.
“Primrose has lost two stone and a half since your extinction,” he proceeded. “I need hardly tell you that she is ignorant of the truth.”
I made no answer and he became personal.
“You’re going strong, I suppose?”
“I’m going mad,” I answered.
“Providence not much to the front yet?”