The circus proprietor—when I was introduced by my friend the gipsy—turned out to be quite a decent fellow. He wanted to book me up for a year’s engagement. But I of course refused. He suggested six months. Still I shook my head. My own idea was the shortest possible length of time which would earn me enough money to get back to Puddleby looking decent. I guessed from the circus man’s eagerness that he wanted me in his show at almost any cost and for almost any length of time. Finally after much argument we agreed upon a month. Then came the question of clothes. At this point I was very cautious. He at first wanted me to keep my hair long and wear little more than a loin cloth. I was to be a “Missing Link from Mars” or something of the sort. I told him I didn’t want to be anything of the kind (though his notion was much nearer to the truth than he knew). His next idea for me was “The Giant Cowboy from the Pampas.” For this I was to wear an enormous sun-hat, woolly trousers, pistols galore, and spurs with rowels like saucers. That didn’t appeal to me either very much as a Sunday suit to show to Puddleby. Finally, as I realized more fully how keen the showman was to have me, I thought I would try to arrange my own terms. “Look here, Sir,” I said: “I have no desire to appear something I am not. I am a scientist, an explorer, returned from foreign parts. My great growth is a result of the climates I have been through and the diet I have had to live on. I will not deceive the public by masquerading as a Missing Link or Western Cowboy. Give me a decent suit of black such as a man of learning would wear. And I will guarantee to tell your audiences tales of travel—true tales—such as they have never imagined in their wildest dreams. But I will not sign on for more than a month. That is my last word. Is it a bargain?” Well, it was. He finally agreed to all my terms. My wages were to be three shillings a day. My clothes were to be my own property when I had concluded my engagement. I was to have a bed and a wagon to myself. My hours for public appearance were strictly laid down and the rest of my time was to be my own. It was not hard work. I went on show from ten to twelve in the morning, from three to five in the afternoon, and from eight to ten at night. A tailor was produced who fitted my enormous frame with a decent looking suit. A barber was summoned to cut my hair. During my show hours I signed my autograph to pictures of myself which the circus proprietor had printed in great numbers. They were sold at three pence apiece. Twice a day I told the gaping crowds of holiday folk the story of my travels. But I never spoke of the Moon. I called it just a “foreign land”—which indeed was true enough.