One day there came to the Indian village, in which he dwelt at the time with his still pretty though matronly wife Brighteyes, one of the agents of a man whose business it was to collect wild animals for the menageries of the United States and elsewhere. Probably this man was an ancestor of Barnum, for he possessed a mind which seemed to be capable of conceiving anything and sticking at nothing. He found a man quite after his own heart when he discovered Little Tim.
“I want a grizzly b’ar,” he said, on being introduced to the hunter.
“There’s plenty of ’em in these parts,” said Tim, who was whittling a piece of wood at the time.
“But I want a full-grown old ’un,” said the agent.
“Well,” remarked Tim, looking up with an inquiring glance for a moment, “I should say there’s some thousands, more or less, roamin’ about the Rockies, in all stages of oldness—from experienced mammas to great-grandmothers, to say nothin’ o’ the old gentlemen; but you’ll find most of ’em powerful sly an’ uncommon hard to kill.”
“But I don’t want to kill ’em; I want one of ’em alive,” said the agent.
At this Little Tim stopped whittling the bit of stick, and looked hard at the man.
“You wants to catch one alive?” he repeated.
“Yes, that’s what’s the matter with me exactly. I want it for a show, an’ I’m prepared to give a good price for a big one.”
“How much?” asked the hunter.