As for Poole Brothers, they couldn’t complain. The attraction had already netted them ten times what they had ever expected to get out of it. And, remembering how tame had been the original snake-eater when he first took the part, they gave Stetson carte blanche in the matter of gin, and trusted that, perhaps, in time the precedent which Bosko had established might be repeated.
THE FALSE PROPHET.
THE FALSE PROPHET.[5]
I MET him the first time in a low cabaret in the Rivola, the cheapest quarter of Paris. How did I come there? Perhaps I am a student of the lower classes, and was pursuing my study there. Perhaps—but never mind, it makes no difference how I came there or who or what I am. This is not my story, it concerns the Prophet only.