"Well, this mammoth had tumbled over a cliff in the mountains of Siberia, thousands of years ago, and falling upon a glacier was frozen solidly in the ice, and, as it never melted, his body didn't decay. A few years ago they discovered it, and dug it out practically intact."
Tim's eyes were wide, and his mouth had fallen open during this description.
"Wot more?" he demanded quizzically.
"Only this," I continued, "that everything had been so well preserved by the ice that even the wisp of hay was still in his mouth."
"Dat'll do—dat'll do," he cried, as he rose abruptly to his feet. "Don' tell me no more. I sits here like a big gawk listenin' to dat story wit' me mout' open an' takin' it all in like a dam' fool. An' I stood fer it all, too," he continued, with remorseful irritability, "till ye comed to dat 'wisp o' hay' business—dat wos de las' straw."
"Hay, Tim," I corrected.
"Hay er straw, it's all de same to dis gent. Gees! you is de worse liar wot I ever heard."
Tim's humiliation at the thought that he had been taken in was so comical that I had to laugh. He turned hastily for the door, and as he passed out cried:
"Good night, sir. Don' have no more nightmares like dat."
The first faint light of day was stealing into the room as I felt myself tugged gently by the toe. I opened my eyes and dimly saw Tim's dishevelled head at the foot of my bed.