My eyes wandered to McGinity, and he read my thoughts. He jumped from his chair, and moved to the side of the tearful trainer. He handed him a cigarette; even lit it for him.
"T'anka you, Meester," the Italian breathed fervently.
"That's better, now,—what?" McGinity said, patting him on the shoulder. "Well, I think I can tell you what happened to Peter," he went on, "but first you must tell me what tricks you taught him."
The Italian brightened perceptibly. "Oh, Meester!" he exclaimed, proudly, "I teacha Peter to act lika de gentlemans, to sit at de table, and eata and smoka de cigarettes, like de big millionaire, and never to maka de spit on de floor. I teacha him to sleep in de bed, to look at de picture books, to ride de bike, and lock and unlock de door of his cage."
"Was Peter always tractable? I mean by that—did you find it easy to teach him these tricks!"
The Italian shrugged his shoulders. "Peter, he was a funny fellow. Sometimes, he doa whata I say, and, sometimes, Meester, he doa nothing at all. He go hide in de closet, or under de bed. He act veery bad."
"Lapses, eh? He did things you didn't want him to do?" McGinity interrogated further.
"Once, Meester, he go nuts—clean nuts. He maka de fight wid de pillow. He tried to smother me—killa me! What doa you say for dat? Killa me! For two days, I lock him up in de dark closet, den he hammer on de door, lika I teacha him to doa, and cry to git out—cry lika a leetle boy cry for his spaghetti."
"Oh! He liked spaghetti, did he?"
"Did my Peter lika de spaghetti?" the Italian echoed rather explosively. "And he lika de good wine too; he drinka plenty, and no git sloused. And, spaghetti—why, Peter, he lika de spaghetti so much he learn to speaka de name. Maybe, you don' believe a big champanzee speaka de Anglish word, spaghetti. Well, Meester, I swear—" he hesitated a moment and reverently crossed himself—"I swear he speaka dat word jist as good as you or me, only, Peter, he say—'spaghet!'"