I may as well say at once that on the August Bank Holiday of the
present year I was a camel--one that carries children about. How many
enjoyed exercise at my expense I cannot say; I only know that the
tortures of the day appeared endless. I had lived a thousand years of
physical anguish before the sun set. Then I was marched back to my
stall with a sore hump and a sick heart. The ingenuity of my tormentor
was more than human. I shall shudder to my dying day when I hear
esoteric Buddhism mentioned, and it ages me even now to read or hear
the name of Robinson. After the camel episode I had comparative leisure
as a kangaroo, and then, upon the sudden arrival of an Australian
ornithorhynchus at the Gardens, Robinson transferred me to this uncanny
nightmare. On the occasion of my becoming the infant hippopotamus he
accosted me again in the shape of the new giraffe, and told me that all
the doctors, save one only, now considered that I was a dead man.
“There’s been a deal of correspondence in the _Lancet_,” he said, “and
the consensus of scientific opinion now inclines to the conclusion
that you have passed away. The Directors of the Westminster Aquarium
wanted you for a side-show, but your executors declined to accept the
terms offered.”
“I should hope so!” I answered.
“Primrose has lost two stone and a half since your extinction,” he
proceeded. “I need hardly tell you that she is ignorant of the truth.”