"Well, inside there's a hand-organ going all the time, you know—"
"The wild man?" she insisted, like a child looking ahead for the real meat of the story one is telling it.
"I'm getting to him as fast as I consistently can. The wild man sits tamely in a cheap chair on a platform, with a row of his photographs spread charmingly at his feet. Of course you are certain at once that he is no longer wild. You know that a wild man whose spirit had not been utterly broken would never sit there and listen to that hand-organ eight hours every day except Sunday. The fluent and polished gentleman in charge—who has a dyed mustache—assures us that we have nothing to fear from this 'once ferocious monster of the tropic jungle, with his bestial craving for human flesh,' but that seems a mere matter of form, with the hand-organ going in our ears—"
"Really," Miss Lansdale began—or tried to.
"One moment, please! The scholarly person goes on to relate the circumstances of the wild person's capture—substantially as depicted upon the canvas outside—and winds up with: 'After being brought to this country in chains he was reclaimed from his savage estate, was given a good English education, and can now converse intelligently upon all the leading topics of the day. Step up, ladies and gentlemen,' he concludes, with a rather pointed delicacy, 'and you will find him ready and willing to answer all proper questions.'"
