He looked toward the cage and stopped short, his mouth open and his eyes staring. Sitting on his haunches, his fore paws, or hands, hanging down like those of a "begging" dog, a Tasmanian Wild Man stared from between the bars of the cage. The matted hair, the bare legs, the animal skin blanket, the streaks of ochre and red on the face, the black circles around the eyes with the white inside the circles, were those of a real Tasmanian Wild Man, but this Tasmanian Wild Man was tall and thin, almost rivaling Mr. Lonergan in that respect. The thin Roman nose and the blinky eyes, together with the manner of holding the head on one side, suggested a bird--a large and dissipated flamingo, for instance. Mr. Dorgan stared with his mouth open. He stared so steadily that he even took a telegram from the messenger boy who entered the tent, and signed for it without looking at the address. The messenger boy, too, stopped to stare at the Tasmanian flamingo. The men who had brought the blue case set it down and stared. The freaks gathered in front of the cage and stared. "What is it?" asked Syrilla in a voice trembling with emotion. "Say! Where in the U.S.A. did _you_ come from?" asked Mr. Dorgan suddenly. "What in the dickens are you, anyway?" "I'm a Tasmanian Wild Man," said Mr. Gubb mildly. "You a Tasmanian Wild Man?" said Mr. Dorgan. "You don't think you look like a Tasmanian Wild Man, do you? Why, you look like--you look like--you look--" "He looks like an intoxicated pterodactyl," said Mr. Lonergan, who had some knowledge of prehistoric animals,--"only hairier." "He looks like a human turkey with a piebald face," suggested General Thumb. "He don't look like nothin'!" said Mr. Dorgan at last. "That's what he looks like. You get out of that cage!" he added sternly to Mr. Gubb. "I don't want nothin' that looks like you nowhere near this show." "But, Mr. Dorgan, dearie, think how he'd draw crowds," said Syrilla. "Crowds? Of course he'd draw crowds," said Mr. Dorgan. "But what would I say when I lectured about him? What would I call him? No, he's got to go. Boys," he said to the four roustabouts, two of whom were those Mr. Gubb had seen in the property tent, "throw this feller out of the tent." "Stop!" said Mr. Gubb, raising one hand. "I will admit I have tried to deceive you: I am not a Tasmanian Wild Man. I am a deteckative!" "Detective?" said Mr. Dorgan. "In disguise," said Mr. Gubb modestly. "In the deteckative profession the assuming of disguises is often necessary to the completion of the clarification of a mystery plot." He pointed down at the Pet, whose newly rouged and powdered face rested smirkingly in the box below the cage. "I arrest you all," he said, but before he could complete the sentence, the red-headed man and the black-headed man turned and bolted from the tent. Mr. Gubb beat and jerked at the bars of his cage as frantically as Mr. Waldo Emerson Snooks had ever beaten and jerked, but he could not rend them apart.