The Professor pursued his investigations no further.  The tent was pitched, the museum was arranged for an afternoon performance, and the unrivalled showman, to whose enterprise Rabbit owed this chance of improving its mind and enlivening its leisure, took his stand outside, and endeavoured to awaken the township to a sense of its opportunities.  For three-quarters of an hour he poured forth a stream of eloquence at the top of his pitch.  After the first quarter of an hour he was appreciated by a tired dog, which drifted up, and barked at him in a desultory way.  Later, he was becoming discouraged when a tattered youth, wearing a hat that nearly engulfed him, came and stared at him open-mouthed, stupidly, silently, for twenty minutes.  This youth was the township idiot.  Nobody else troubled to come out and see what all the noise was about.

“We’re got to shake up the township, Nickie,” Thunder said.

“Well, go out and shake it, Professor—­I’m tired.”

“No, Nickie, you’ve got to do the shaking.  See here, the place is dead.  I don’t believe it ever heard of Professor Thunder and his world-famous Missing Link; I don’t think it has discovered that anything unusual has happened along.  You must escape from your cage to-night, and scare the life half out of some of these miserable mummies, then I’ll come along and recapture you.  That should excite some curiosity, and perhaps bring in money to-morrow’.”

Nickie yawned lazily.  “Oh, all right,” he said, getting back to his straw; “but mind there are no guns.  I’ve an objection to being hunted with guns—­it’s too wearing.”

That night a large, hairy animal of a species hither to unknown at Rabbit, made its way along the deserted main street of the township.  The animal walked upright, like a huge monkey, its long hands swung below its knees.  Mahdi had not gone a hundred yards when a large, stout man lurched out of the shadow of a tree and fell upon him.

The large, stout man smelt strongly of consumed drink.  He clasped the Missing Link to his breast for a moment, then swayed back, holding on with one hand.  In the other hand he flourished a bottle.

“Goot day, mein bruder; how are you?” he gurgled.  Nickie growled his most terrible growl, and the stranger made some little show of surprise.  “Vot is it der madder?” he said.  “Blitzen, dot’s a peaudiful winter overcoad vot you year mit der summer.  Come’n haff er drink.”  He held the bottle towards Nickie the Kid.  It was a bottle of square gin.  All kinds of bottles were fascinating to Nickie.

Mahdi faltered.  Nickie was very partial to square gin, and although the Missing Link had a proper sense of duty, the inner man was weak.

“Helup vourseluf, Sharlie,” said Schmitz.

Nickie helped himself.  He helped himself liberally.  Schmitz fell on Mahdi’s neck, and embraced him freely.  “Mein goot friend,” he gurgled, “I like you.  You shplended fellow.  Dot’s so, sure.  Come mit me, my ‘ous’ to, und ye make a night mid it.”  He embraced Nickie again.