“What, me?” cried Nickie.

The Skeleton nodded, and Nickie was silent for a moment, lost in thought.  It was very necessary that Nickie should sink his identity for a time.  Here was a magnificent opportunity.  “Has the Missing Link much to do?” he asked.

“No,” replied Matty Cann.  “He’s just gotter he careful not t’ over-eat hisseif, as I was savin’.  Yeh see, people what come in t’ th’ show gives him buns, an’ lollies an’ things, an’ if he’s a glutton he’ bound t’ he knocked out.”

“What else does he do?”

“Oh, prowls round in the cage.”

“Anything else?”

“An’ scratches hisself.”

“Yes.”

“An’ growls.”

“That seems easy.”

“Well, it all depends.  If yer gifted that way it’s easy enough, but real scratchin’ an’ natural growlin’ takes a bit o’ doin’.”

“How’s this?” asked Nickie.

He scratched himself in approved monkey style, hopped briskly over the stone, then sat up, and growled a deep, guttural growl.

“That’s it—­that’s it, t’ th’ life!” cried Bonypart in amazed admiration.  “Why, you’re er natural born artist, that’s what you are.  If I could growl an’ scratch like that I’d be a Missin’ Link t’-morrer.  No more living skelingtons fer me.”

“Look here,” said Nicholas Crips seriously, “how long does the Missing Link have to remain in the cage?”

“The show opens et one in th’ afternoon, close at five, opens again at seven, an’ closes et arf-pas ten.”

“And has the Missing Link to be growling’ and scratching all the time?”

“No, not all the time.  If there ain’t any people in he kin lie in er corner on th’ stror under his blanket an’ sleep, an’ sometimes he kin stay lyin’ on the stror when there’s on’y a few people in, so long ez he growls a bit, an’ stretches hisself.  There’s a lot in stretchin’ hisself proper.”

“Like this,” said Nickie.  He reached out one leg, clawed with his left hand, and yawned cavernously.

“Th’ very identical,” said Bonypart admiringly.  “You was meant t’ be a Missin’ Link.  Y’iv got all th’ natural gifts, an’ with th’ proper hide drawn on over yeh, an’ yer face made up a bit, nobody ud ever think you was anythink else but a true African Missin’ Link, born an’ bred.”

“Are you quite sure the Missing Link has nothing else to do?” asked Nickie, cautiously.

“Positive, Missin’ Links is scarce; they has pretty much their own way.  Hold on—­he’s gotter ’aug a bit by one hand from a bar what goes through his cage, an’ pretent to be sleepin’.”

Nickie the Kid had a contemplative expression “Bless my soul,” he said, “there are strange ways of earning a living, and I’m not sure that my way is the easiest after all.”

He drained the bottle.