"Wasn't it the lion?" she insisted.
Timothy nodded again; he thought it might have been the lion.
"What you so glum about, Timmie?" his sweetheart asked, glancing at him fleetingly.
Timothy flushed to the line of his hair.
"Gosh," he said, "this here pasture looks so differ'nt I can't get over it."
"Yes," said Liva, "it does look differ'nt, don't it?"
Before one o'clock they drifted with the rest toward the animal tent. They went incuriously past the snake show, the Eats-'em-alive show, and the Eastern vaudeville. But hard by the red wagon where tickets were sold Timothy halted spellbound. What he had heard was:—
"Types. Types. Right this way AND in this direction for Types. No, Ladies, and no, Gents: Not Tin-types. But Photo-types. Photographs put up in Tintype style AT Tintype price. Three for a quarter. The fourth of a dozen for the fourth of a dollar. Elegant pictures, elegant finish, refined, up-to-date. Of yourself, Gents, of yourself. Or of any one you see around you. And WHILE you wait."
Timothy said it before he had any idea that he meant to say it:—