The Dog-faced Man was all prinked for the occasion--his hirsute adornment neatly brushed and braided, smoothly parted from crown over brow and nose to chin: so that, though, to be sure, his appearance instantly suggested a porcupine, his sensitive lips and mild gray eyes were for once allowed to impress the beholder. The air of Hockley's Musee had at last laid him by the heels. No longer, by any license of metaphor, could his lungs be said to be merely restless. He was flat on his back--white, wan, gasping: sweat dampening the hair on his brow. But he bravely chirked up when the child entered, subdued and pitiful; and though, in response to a glance of pain and concern, his eyes overran with the weak tears of the sick, he smiled like a man to whom Nature had not been cruel, while he pressed the small hand so swiftly extended. "I'm sick, Richard," he whispered. "'Death No Respecter of Persons.' Git me? 'High and Low Took By the Grim Reaper.' I'm awful sick." The boy, now seated on the bed, still holding the ghastly hand, hoped that Mr. Poddle would soon be well. "No," said the Dog-faced Man. "I won't. 'Climax of a Notable Career.' Git me? It wouldn't--be proper." Not proper? "No, Richard. It really wouldn't be proper. 'Dignified in Death.' Understand? Distinguished men has their limits. 'Outlived His Fame.' I really couldn't stand it. Git me?" "Not--quite." "Guess I'll have to tell you. Look!" The Dog-faced Man held up his hand--but swiftly replaced it between the child's warm, sympathetic palms. "No rings. Understand? 'Pawned the Family Jewells.' Git me? 'Reduced to Poverty.' Where's my frock coat? Where's my silk hat? 'Wardrobe of a Celebrity Sold For A Song.' Where's them two pair of trousers? 'A Tragic Disappearance.' All up the spout. Everything gone. 'Not a Stitch to His Name.' Really, Richard, it wouldn't be proper to get well. A natural phenomenon of my standing couldn't--simply _couldn't_, Richard--go back to the profession with a wardrobe consistin' of two pink night-shirts, both the worse for wear. It wouldn't _do_! On the Stage In Scant Attire.' I couldn't stand it. 'Fell From His High Estate.' It would break my heart." No word of comfort occurred to the boy. "So," sighed the Dog-faced Man, "I guess I better die. And the quicker the better." To change the distressful drift of the conversation, the boy inquired concerning the Mexican Sword Swallower. "Hush!" implored Mr. Poddle, in a way so poignant that the boy wished he had been more discreet. "Them massive proportions! Them socks! 'Her Fate a Tattooed Man,'" he pursued, in gentle melancholy. "Don't ask me! 'Nearing the Fateful Hour.' Poor child!' Wedded To A Artificial Freak.'" "Is she married?"