“Of course it is. But my dear old mother got it into her head that it was a boy’s name. The parson argued with her. The sexton argued. The godfathers and godmothers argued. The only one that didn’t argue was my poor old dad, who knew better. So, Ursula I was christened, by thunder. Unwin Ursula Blundell.” The confidential manner of the showman invited confidence in return, and before the train had puffed out of more than two of the stations between Brigham and Liverpool he was in possession of Bram’s history. “So you’re thinking of going to sea? It’s a hard life, my young friend. Can’t you think of a better way of earning a living than rolling down to Rio? What about the boards?” Bram looked puzzled. “The stage. The profession. Tragedy! Drama! Comedy! Farce!” “Well, I’d like to be an actor,” said Bram eagerly. “But could I act? My grandmater said I was a jolly good mimic.” “There you are! What more do you want?” “But aren’t I rather young?” Bram asked, in a sudden panic that he was making a fool of himself. “I mean, who would give me anything to act?” “That’s where Unwin U. Blundell enters, my young friend. Let’s figure out your case. You want to keep out of the way of your father. You don’t want to be hauled back to Brigham and set to work in an office. Am I right?” Bram nodded. “So far, so good. Now we’re up against the long arm again. _I_ want a young cannibal chief as an extra attraction for the Diorama. Why shouldn’t you take on the job? It’ll mean staining yourself brown and talking some kind of gibberish when I give the cue. I’ll stand you in board and lodging and pay you five shillings a week for yourself. What’s more, I’ll teach you how to look like a cannibal chief, and how to act like a cannibal chief. I’d want a short war dance every night. The girls will fake up something tasty there. Then before the show begins you could shake hands with the audience at twopence a head. Mind you don’t forget to shiver all the time. That’ll make the women take an interest in you. But you mustn’t forget you’re a cannibal. If anybody with a bit of ombongpong comes in to take a peep at you, you’ll want to gloat some. You know what I mean? Look as if you was thinking which was the best slice. That’ll go great. I _was_ thinking of touring a big baboon, but a cannibal chief’s worth two baboons. Nothing derogatory, if you follow my meaning. We’ll make you a prince, so as you’ll be treated with respect. Prince Boo Boo. You want to give ’em a nice easy name so as they can talk about it to their friends without thinking that some Mr. Knowall in the corner’s going to jump up and correct them all the time. Nobody could go wrong over a name like Boo Boo. An infant in arms could say it. Prince Boo Boo, the world-famous cannibal chief from the savage Solomon Islands. The youngest son of the world-famous King Noo Noo who boasts of having eaten twenty-three missionaries, nine traders, and fourteen shipwrecked mariners since he ascended the throne.