“Pitcher of George Washington!” ejaculated the man. “What animals, I’d be proud ter know?”
“Why, there were some of them at the Zoo. That’s ’way up in the Bronx, you know.”
“What’s the Brow-n-x?” interrupted Tim as they jounced along.
“Why—why, it’s a park. Bigger’n Central Park, you know—oh! ever so much bigger. And they have lots of animals—wild animals.”
“Not loose?” cried her listener.
“Oh, no. That is, not all of them. Some are in big fields, or yards; but there are fences up.”
“Yep, I sh’d hope so,” returned Tim. “And, if I was goin’ to visit ’em, I sh’d want them fences to be horse high, hog tight, and bull strong. I sure would!”
“Well, but the laughing hyenas are in cages,” explained Carolyn May.
“Do tell! An’ do they laff? They must be good-natured critters, after all, them—what d’ye call ’em—laffin’ hannahs?”
“Hy-e-nas,” repeated Carolyn May carefully. “They look something like dogs—only they aren’t. And they look something like zebras—only they aren’t. And when they do laugh, Mr. Tim, it just makes the cold chills run up and down your back. Oh, they are dreadful ugly beasts! So laughing don’t always make things good-natured, does it?”