Such was the success of that day’s terrible performance that Bosko’s fame quickly spread throughout the entire state, and for the next month he proved one of the brightest and most remunerative “stars” that Poole Brothers had exhibited since the old days of the Hindoo Leper. Nor did he have to live on the reputation of that one performance alone, for towards the last of the month the attacks were of almost daily occurrence. But that state of affairs could not continue long. The last public appearance of the “Strangest Freak” was in Concord, N. H., and those who witnessed the ravings of the Australian snake-eater on that day saw something which they did not forget for many a year. The next day Bosko was too ill to leave his bed, and a week later he died, still fighting his foes, and wailing piteously, “Take ’em away; I can’t eat ’em all. There’s too many of ’em, and they’re too big. There’s hundreds of ’em. Take ’em away, I say. They’re in my hair, they’re choking me.” The snake-eating attraction had to be discontinued after that, for though Stetson made some very flattering offers to several of the colored cooks, hostlers, and helpers connected with the show, no one seemed to aspire to the position. Some few had seen the negro the last night, and news of that kind travels fast. The public, however, clamored for a snake-eater. They had heard such blood-curdling reports of the freak which had passed through Vermont and New Hampshire, that many were the complaints made to the management for not bringing out their whole show. The circus, being, above all things, an institution catering to the public’s wishes, made heroic efforts. Stetson was sent on a special trip to New York, and spent most of the time slumming. He returned soon after with a negro well past middle age and almost blind, but with a strong affinity for gin. It wasn’t much of a sight for anyone who had ever seen the creator of the part of Bosko, this stupid, muttering old man, who sometimes went to sleep during performances; but his predecessor had made the reputation, and he simply lived on it, staying gloriously drunk six days out of the week. As for Poole Brothers, they couldn’t complain. The attraction had already netted them ten times what they had ever expected to get out of it. And, remembering how tame had been the original snake-eater when he first took the part, they gave Stetson _carte blanche_ in the matter of gin, and trusted that, perhaps, in time the precedent which Bosko had established might be repeated. THE FALSE PROPHET. THE FALSE PROPHET.[5] I met him the first time in a low _cabaret_ in the Rivola, the cheapest quarter of Paris. How did I come there? Perhaps I am a student of the lower classes, and was pursuing my study there. Perhaps--but never mind, it makes no difference how I came there or who or what I am. This is not my story, it concerns the Prophet only.