Mr. Frank Buckland had been in France and was returning via Southampton,
with an overcoat stuffed with natural history specimens of all sorts,
dead and alive. Among them was a monkey, which was domiciled in a large
inside breast-pocket. As Buckland was taking his ticket, Jocko thrust up
his head and attracted the attention of the booking-clerk, who
immediately—and very properly—said, “You must take a ticket for that dog,
if it’s going with you.” “Dog,” said Buckland, “it’s no dog, it’s a
monkey.” “It is a dog,” replied the clerk. “It’s a monkey,” retorted
Buckland, and proceeded to show the whole animal, but without convincing
the clerk, who insisted on five shillings for the dog-ticket to London.
Nettled at this, Buckland plunged his hand into another pocket and
produced a tortoise, and laying it on the sill of the ticket window said,
“Perhaps you’ll call that a dog too.” The clerk inspected the tortoise.
“No,” said he, “we make no charge for them—they’re insects.”