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, nobody 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 'aug 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 "astonishin'
marvellous pictorial representations," and assuring 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 Natu