As we left that day, Joe took his hat, cane, and heavy wrap, and escorted us to the great door of the monkey house, shaking our hands as we bade him good-bye.
Another time when I called he was taking tea, using milk and sugar and handling cup and saucer as if he had been familiar with them from his earliest days. He motioned us to take chairs. We did so and he jumped up, found cups for us, and then passed a plate of biscuits, laughing with glee as we took one. I have taken tea with many curious individuals, but never expect to be so honored again as to be invited by a chimpanzee.
Noticing his hand was feverish, I found his pulse was 130. I said “What is the matter of him?”
“Consumption is what kills all of them,” the man answered, low, just as if talking before a human invalid.
From that day Joe failed rapidly, and one morning under the head of “Great Loss,” The Times announced that he died at midnight.
I went down at once to see the keeper whose grief I knew would be keen.
He told me how for days, Joe could only be persuaded to take food by seeing him eat and hearing him praise it, how he made him sleep in his berth by his side, and when death came, held his hand through all the last struggle.
The man’s voice was actually choked with sobs as he said, “It don’t seem right, indeed it don’t, not to have a funeral for him! He ought to have had it.”
I never heard Joe had any funeral, but I did hear that he was stuffed, and looks more like a big boy than when he was alive.