"Hurt!" cried Mr. Poddle, furiously. "It's perfectly excrugiating! Hurt? Why——"
"Mr. Poddle, excuse me," the boy interrupted, "but you are biting your mustache."
"Thanks," said Mr. Poddle, promptly. "Glad to know it. Can't afford to lose no more hirsute adornment. And I'm give to ravagin' it in moments of excitement, especially sorrow. Always tell me."
"I will," the boy gravely promised.
"The Pink-eyed Albino," Mr. Poddle continued, now released from the necessity of commanding his feelings, in so far as the protection of his hair was concerned, "was fancy; the Circassian Beauty was fascination; the Female Sampson was the hallugination of sky-blue tights; but the Mexican Sword Swallower," he murmured, with a melancholy wag, "is——"
"Mr. Poddle," the boy warned, "you are—at it again."
"Thanks," said Mr. Poddle, hastily eliminating the danger. "What I was about to remark," was his lame conclusion, "was that the Mexican Sword Swallower is love."
"Oh!"
The Dog-faced Man snapped a sigh in two. "Richard," he insinuated suspiciously, "what you sayin', 'Oh!' for?"
"Wasn't the Bearded Lady, love?"