Of course, the revelation resulting from Ammonia’s misconduct would go round the place like wildfire.  There might be a raid of indignant residents, a prosecution for fraud, and there wasn’t time to run.

The raid came in due time.  Ten heads of families accompanied by Quinn, the local constable, bore down upon the Museum of Marvels within an hour.  Professor Thunder met them at the entrance, with his studious manner and his solemn black hat.  The raid was going to express itself forcibly; it did refer to “iniquitous frauds,” “shameful imposition,” “scoundrels,” &c., but the Professor’s big, penetrating voice, his heavy-as-lead manner, triumphed.

“Most unfortunate, gentlemen, a most lamentable disaster,” he said.  “My valuable Missing Link is more seriously injured than I imagined, and I may lose him, which would be a heavy blow, indeed, as the College of Naturalists of London, values the beast at four thousand and seventy pounds.”

“It’s a fraud—­a blanky imposition!” cried a fierce little man.

“Gentlemen will you favour me by stepping into the museum, and judging for yourself,” said Thunder gravely.  “You will find the Missing Link in a low state, but Madame Marve has done all that surgical skill could do.  The murderous attacks of the gorilla scalped the poor creature, and tore the skin from his body, but the wounds have been stitched up—­there is still hope.  This way, gentle men, and quietly, if you please.”

The surprised and subdued deputation found Mahdi, the Missing Link, lying moaning on his straw, his wounds—­artfully bloodstained—­all stitched up.  There were white bandages about his head and his injured arms.

“But the girls say it was a man gasped the fierce deputationist.

“A not unnatural mistake, my dear sir,” said the Professor, “Strip the poor creature of its hairy hide and its resemblance to a human creature would deceive the most expert naturalist.”

“Wonderful!” said the local publican.

“But all the same, me mahn,” said Quinn, regretfully, “I have half a moind t’ prosecute yeh fer croolty t’ animals.”

The trick worked, however, the situation was saved, and that night all Bunkers flocked to see the Missing Link that had been flayed in its life-and-death struggle with an infuriated gorilla.

CHAPTER X.

The stolen Babe.

In the larger townships and the small towns visit by the museum of Marvels on its provincial tour, Professor Thunder, gifted manager of this “colossal amusement enterprise,” as the streamers eloquently phrased it, preferred to secure a shop in the main street to pitching his tent in some out-of-the-way place, where his persuasive powers might be wasted on the desert air.

The Professor flattered himself there was not a more seductive “spruicher” in the business, and, mounted on a gin case at a shop front plentifully papered with screaming posters depicting the more popular attractions, he reckoned that he could always lure a given number of people into the show by the sheer force of his eloquence, and so make up the rent, provided there were men and women in the street willing to listen.