ere's my silk hat?
'Wardrobe of a Celebrity Sold For A Song.' Where's them two pair of
trousers? 'A Tragic Disappearance.' All up the spout. Everything
gone. 'Not a Stitch to His Name.' Really, Richard, it wouldn't be
proper to get well. A natural phenomenon of my standing
couldn't--simply _couldn't_, Richard--go back to the profession with a
wardrobe consistin' of two pink night-shirts, both the worse for wear.
It wouldn't _do_! On the Stage In Scant Attire.' I couldn't stand it.
'Fell From His High Estate.' It would break my heart."

No word of comfort occurred to the boy.

"So," sighed the Dog-faced Man, "I guess I better die. And the
quicker the better."

To change the distressful drift of the conversation, the boy inquired
concerning the Mexican Sword Swallower.

"Hush!" implored Mr. Poddle, in a way so poignant that the boy wished
he had been more discreet. "Them massive proportions! Them socks!
'Her Fate a Tattooed Man,'" he pursued, in gentle melancholy. "Don't
ask me! 'Nearing the Fateful Hour.' Poor child!' Wedded To A
Artificial Freak.'"

"Is she married?"

"No--not yet," Mr. Poddle explained. "But when the dragon's tail is
finished, accordin' to undenigeable report, the deed will be did.
'Shackled For Life.' Oh, my God! He's borrowed the money to pay the
last installment; and I'm informed that only the scales has to be
picked out with red. But why should I mourn?" he asked. "'Adored From
Afar.' Understand? That's what I got to do. 'His Love a Tragedy.'
Oh, Richard," Mr. Poddle concluded, in genuine distress, "that's me!
It couldn't be nothing else. Natural phenomens is natural phenomens.
'Paid the Penalty of Genius.' That's me!"

The boy's mother called to him.

"Richard," said Mr. Poddle, abruptly, "I'm awful sick. I can't last
much longer. Git me? I'm dyin'. And I'm poor. I ain't got a cent.
I'm forgot by the public. I'm all alone in the world. Nobody owes me
no kindness." He clutched the boy's hand. "Know who pays my rent?
Know who feeds me? Know who brings the doctor when I vomit blood?
Know who sits with me in the night--when I can't sleep? Know who
watches over me? Who comforts me? Who holds my hand when I git afraid
to die? Know who that is, Richard?"

"Yes," the boy whispered.

"Who is it?"

"My mother!"

"Yes--your mother," said the Dog-faced Man. He lifted himself on the
pillow. "Richard," he continued, "listen to me! I'll be dead, soon