“I have a government permit,” said the Professor. “But if you haven’t any beaver—”
“Catching beaver would be easy. We have a grand colony not three miles away,” Lawrence put in. “We might—”
“How about mink?” Johnny asked. “We have some fine ones. Or snow-shoe rabbits?”
“I suggest that you eat the rabbits,” the Professor laughed. “I’ll have a look at your mink. But beaver! There’s your main chance. Can’t you get me some? Big ones, the bigger the better.
“You see,” he smiled, “we think we’re really doing good through this work. In the big cities, hot in summer and cold in winter and crowded always, there are hundreds of thousands of children who would never know what a woodchuck, a monkey, a beaver or a bear looked like if they didn’t see them in a zoo. Brings real joy to them, I’m sure. Many’s the fellow who dates his first real interest in the wide out-of-doors to his visit at the zoo.”
“Yes, I—” Johnny had scarcely heard him. “Could we do it?” he was asking himself. He was thinking of beaver. “Why not? Thousands and thousands of city children.” His head was in a whirl.
“I think,” he tried to make his voice seem very cheerful, “I think we can supply the beaver. Can’t we, Lawrence?”
“What? Yes. Oh, yes,” Lawrence replied.
“One of them must be a big one, a real boss of the village,” warned the Professor.
“We’ve got him,” Johnny laughed uncertainly. “Napoleon himself.”