Part 7 (1/2)
”Oh, prowls round in the cage.”
”Anything else?”
”An' scratches hisself.”
”Yes.”
”An' growls.”
”That seems easy.”
”Well, it all depends. If yer gifted that way it's easy enough, but real scratchin' an' natural growlin' takes a bit o' doin'.”
”How's this?” asked Nickie.
He scratched himself in approved monkey style, hopped briskly over the stone, then sat up, and growled a deep, guttural growl.
”That's it--that's it, t' th' life!” cried Bonypart in amazed admiration.
”Why, you're er natural born artist, that's what you are. If I could growl an' scratch like that I'd be a Missin' Link t'-morrer. No more living skelingtons fer me.”
”Look here,” said Nicholas Crips seriously, ”how long does the Missing Link have to remain in the cage?”
”The show opens et one in th' afternoon, close at five, opens again at seven, an' closes et arf-pas ten.”
”And has the Missing Link to be growling' and scratching all the time?”
”No, not all the time. If there ain't any people in he kin lie in er corner on th' stror under his blanket an' sleep, an' sometimes he kin stay lyin' on the stror when there's on'y a few people in, so long ez he growls a bit, an' stretches hisself. There's a lot in stretchin' hisself proper.”
”Like this,” said Nickie. He reached out one leg, clawed with his left hand, and yawned cavernously.
”Th' very identical,” said Bonypart admiringly. ”You was meant t' be a Missin' Link. Y'iv got all th' natural gifts, an' with th' proper hide drawn on over yeh, an' yer face made up a bit, n.o.body ud ever think you was anythink else but a true African Missin' Link, born an' bred.”
”Are you quite sure the Missing Link has nothing else to do?” asked Nickie, cautiously.
”Positive, Missin' Links is scarce; they has pretty much their own way.
Hold on--he's gotter 'ang a bit by one hand from a bar what goes through his cage, an' pretent to be sleepin'.”
Nickie the Kid had a contemplative expression ”Bless my soul,” he said, ”there are strange ways of earning a living, and I'm not sure that my way is the easiest after all.”
He drained the bottle.
Professor Thunder's Museum of Marvels was established in a shop in Bourke Street, Melbourne. The shop window was curtained with large posters, one representing a tall man, very thin even for a skeleton, sitting at a table, tying knots in his limbs. The other pictured a strange, hairy monster, half human, half monkey, which was labelled ”Darwin's Missing Link.” On a kerosene case at the door stood Professor Thunder himself, appealing to the populace to pause and contemplate the ”astonis.h.i.+n'
marvellous pictorial representations,” and a.s.suring five small boys that these were ”living, speaking likenesses” of the wonders within. ”No deception, ladies and gents, no deception!” he cried.
Professor Thunder was his own ”spruicher;” his eloquence was remarkable, his voice had the carrying power of a steam whistle, and the penetrating qualities of a circular saw. He was a quaint product of the show business, having been born in a museum and bred in an atmosphere of cheap theatricals.
”Step inside! Step inside! Step inside!” cried the Professor. ”There you will behold our extraordinary educational collection of Nature's mysteries, known as 'The Descent of Man,' described by the n.o.bility, the scientists, and the faculty as the most complete representation of man's descent from the apes ever presented to an intelligent audience. There you will behold Bonypart, the miraculous, the bone man who has mystified all the doctors and amazed millions. There you will behold Ephraim, the enlightened pig; Madame Marve, the unrivalled seer, and last, but not least, Mahdi, the Missing Link, p.r.o.nounced by travellers, medical men, and Darwinian students to be the one and only authentic and reliable Missing Link discovered by mortal man. And the price is only sixpence.
Step up! Step up!”