"Child," the Fat Lady gasped, exasperated, "git in!"

"Not first," the driver repeated. "There ain't room for both; and once she lets her weight down----"

"Maybe," the Fat Lady admitted, after giving the matter most careful consideration, "it would be better for you to set on me."

"Maybe," the boy agreed, much relieved, "it would."

So Madame Lacara entered, and took the boy in her arms; and off, at last, they went towards the Box Street tenement, swaying, creaking, wheezing, with a troop of joyous urchins in the wake....

It was early afternoon--with the sunlight lying thick and warm on the window-ledge of Mr. Poddle's room, about to enter, to distribute cheer, to speak its unfailing promises. The sash was lifted high; a gentle wind, clean and blue, blowing from the sea, over the roofs and the river, came sportively in, with a joyous little rush and swirl--but of a sudden failed: hushed, as though by unexpected encounter with the solemnity within.

The boy's mother was gone. It was of a Sat.u.r.day; she had not dared to linger. When the boy entered, Mr. Poddle lay alone, lifted on the pillows, staring deep into the wide, shining sky: composed and dreamful. The distress of his deformity, as the pains of dissolution, had been mitigated by the woman's kind and knowing hand: the tawny hair, by nature rank and s.h.a.ggy, by habit unkempt, now damp with sweat, was everywhere laid smooth upon his face--brushed away from the eyes: no longer permitted to obscure the fast failing sight.

Beside him, close--drawing closer--the boy seated himself. Very low and broken--husky, halting--was the Dog-faced Man's voice. The boy must often bend his ear to understand.

"The hirsute," Mr. Poddle whispered, "adornment. All ready for the last appearance. 'Natural Phenomonen Meets the Common Fate.'

Celebrities," he added, with a little smile, "is just clay."

The boy took his hand.

"She done it," Mr. Poddle explained, faintly indicating the unusual condition of his deforming hair, "with a little brush."

"She?" the boy asked, with significant emphasis.

"No," Mr. Poddle sighed. "Hush! Not She--just her."

By this the boy knew that the Mexican Sword Swallower had not relented--but that his mother had been kind.

"She left that there little brush somewheres," Mr. Poddle continued, with an effort to lift his head, but failing to do more than roll his glazed eyes. "There was a little handkerchief with it. Can't you find 'em, Richard? I wish you could. They make me--more comfortable. Oh, I'm glad you got 'em! I feel easier--this way. She said you'd stay with me--to the last. She said, Richard, that maybe you'd keep the hair away from my eyes, and the sweat from rollin' in. For I'm easier that way; and I want to _see_," he moaned, "to the last!"

The boy pressed his hand.

"I'm tired of the hair," Mr. Poddle sighed. "I used to be proud of it; but I'm tired of it--now. It's been admired, Richard; it's been applauded. Locks of it has been requested by the Fair; and the Strong has wished they was me. But, Richard, celebrities sits on a lonely eminence. And I _been_ lonely, G.o.d knows! though I kept a smilin'

face.... I'm tired of the hair--tired of fame. It all looks different--when you git sight of the Common Leveller. 'Tired of His Talent.' Since I been lyin' here, Richard, sick and alone, I been thinkin' that talent wasn't nothin' much after all. I been wishin', Richard--wishin'!"

The Dog-faced Man paused for breath.

"I been wishin'," he gasped, "that I wasn't a phenomonen--but only a man!"

The sunlight began to creep towards Mr. Poddle's bed--a broad, yellow beam, stretching into the blue s.p.a.ces without: lying like a golden pathway before him.

"Richard," said Mr. Poddle, "I'm goin' to die."

The boy began to cry.

"Don't cry!" Mr. Poddle pleaded. "I ain't afraid. Hear me, Richard?

I ain't afraid."

"No, no!"

"I'm glad to die. 'Death the Dog-faced Man's Best Friend.' I'm glad!

Lyin' here, I seen the truth. It's only when a man looks back that he finds out what he's missed--only when he looks back, from the end of the path, that he sees the flowers he might have plucked by the way....

Lyin' here, I been lookin' back--far back. And my eyes is opened. Now I see--now I know! I have been travellin' a road where the flowers grows thick. But G.o.d made me so I couldn't pick 'em. It's love, Richard, that men wants. Just love! It's love their hearts is thirsty for.... And there wasn't no love--for me. I been awful thirsty, Richard; but there wasn't no water anywhere in all the world--for me.

'Spoiled In the Making.' That's me. 'G.o.d's Bad Break.' Oh, that's me! I'm not a natural phenomonen no more. I'm only a freak of nature.

I ain't got no kick comin'. I stand by what G.o.d done. Maybe it wasn't no mistake; maybe He wanted to show all the people in the world what would happen if He was in the habit of gittin' careless. Anyhow, I guess He's man enough to stand by the job He done. He made me what I am--a freak. I ain't to blame. But, oh, my G.o.d! Richard, it hurts--to be that!"

The boy brushed the tears from the Dog-faced Man's eyes.

"No," Mr. Poddle repeated. "I ain't afraid to die. For I been thinkin'--since I been lyin' here, sick and alone--I been thinkin' that us mistakes has a good deal----"

The boy bent close.

"Comin' to us!"

The sunlight was climbing the bed-post.

"I been lookin' back," Mr. Poddle repeated. "Things don't look the same. You gits a bird's-eye view of life--from your deathbed. And it looks--somehow--different."

There was a little s.p.a.ce of silence--while the Dog-faced Man drew long breaths: while his wasted hand wandered restlessly over the coverlet.

"You got the little brush, Richard?" he asked, his voice changing to a tired sigh. "The adornment has got in the way again."

The boy brushed back the fallen hair--wiped away the sweat.

"Your mother," said Mr. Poddle, faintly smiling, "does it better.

She's used--to doing it. You ain't--done it--quite right--have you?

You ain't got--all them hairs--out of the way?"

"Yes."

"Not all," Mr. Poddle gently persisted; "because I can't--see--very well."

While the boy humoured the fancy, Mr. Poddle lay musing--his hand still straying over the coverlet: still feverishly searching.

"I used to think, Richard," he whispered, "that it ought to be done--in public." He paused--a flash of alarm in his eyes. "Do you hear me, Richard?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Sure?"

"Oh, yes!"

Mr. Poddle frowned--puzzled, it may be, by the distant sound, the m.u.f.fled, failing rumble, of his own voice.

"I used to think," he repeated, dismissing the problem, as beyond him, "that I'd like to do it--in public."

The boy waited.