“This is the jackal, or lion's provider,” began again the much enduring keeper.
“Who always goes before the lion to purwide his purwisions, purwiding there's anything to purwide,” put in Drysdale.
“Hem—really I do think it's scandalous not to let the keeper tell about the beasteses,” said the unfortunate matron, with a half turn towards the persecutors, and grasping her bag.
“My dear madam,” said Drysdale, in his softest voice, “I assure you he knows nothing about the beasteses. We are Doctor Buckland's favourite pupils, are also well known to the great Panjandrum, and have eaten more beasteses than the keeper has ever seen.”
“I don't know who you are, young man, but you don't know how to behave yourselves,” rejoined the outraged female; and the keeper, giving up the jackal as a bad job, pointing with his pole, proceeded—
“The little hanimal in the upper cage is the hopossom, of North America—”
“The misguided offspring of the raccoon and the gumtree,” put in one of his tormentors.
Here a frightful roaring and struggling at a little distance, mingled with shouts of laughter, and “Hold on, Pat!”
“Go it, panther!” interrupted the lecture, and caused a rush to the other side, where the long Irishman, Donovan, by name, with one foot against the bars, was holding on to the tail of one of the panthers, which he had at length managed to catch hold of. The next moment he was flat on his back in the sawdust, and his victim was bounding wildly about the cage. The keeper hurried away to look after the outraged panther; and Drysdale, at once installing himself as showman, began at the next cage—
“This is the wild man of the woods, or whangee-tangee, the most untameable—good heavens, ma'am, take care!” and he seized hold on the unfortunate woman and pulled her away from the bars.