"No," Mr. Poddle sighed. "Hush! Not She—just her."
By this the boy knew that the Mexican Sword Swallower had not relented—but that his mother had been kind.
"She left that there little brush somewheres," Mr. Poddle continued, with an effort to lift his head, but failing to do more than roll his glazed eyes. "There was a little handkerchief with it. Can't you find 'em, Richard? I wish you could. They make me—more comfortable. Oh, I'm glad you got 'em! I feel easier—this way. She said you'd stay with me—to the last. She said, Richard, that maybe you'd keep the hair away from my eyes, and the sweat from rollin' in. For I'm easier that way; and I want to see," he moaned, "to the last!"
The boy pressed his hand.
"I'm tired of the hair," Mr. Poddle sighed. "I used to be proud of it; but I'm tired of it—now. It's been admired, Richard; it's been applauded. Locks of it has been requested by the Fair; and the Strong has wished they was me. But, Richard, celebrities sits on a lonely eminence. And I been lonely, God knows! though I kept a smilin' face.... I'm tired of the hair—tired of fame. It all looks different—when you git sight of the Common Leveller. 'Tired of His Talent.' Since I been lyin' here, Richard, sick and alone, I been thinkin' that talent wasn't nothin' much after all. I been wishin', Richard—wishin'!"
The Dog-faced Man paused for breath.
"I been wishin'," he gasped, "that I wasn't a phenomonen—but only a man!"
The sunlight began to creep towards Mr. Poddle's bed—a broad, yellow beam, stretching into the blue spaces without: lying like a golden pathway before him.
"Richard," said Mr. Poddle, "I'm goin' to die."
The boy began to cry.