snarers, and also to those who offered specimens for sale, usually at
exorbitant rates.

To the proprietors of five-legged kittens, mangy lynxes, moth-eaten
coyotes, and dancing bears I returned courteous but uncompromising
refusals--of course, first submitting all such letters, together with
my replies, to Professor Farrago.

One day towards the end of May, however, just as I was leaving Bronx
Park to return to town, Professor Lesard, of the reptilian department,
called out to me that Professor Farrago wanted to see me a moment; so
I put my pipe into my pocket again and retraced my steps to the
temporary, wooden building occupied by Professor Farrago, general
superintendent of the Zoological Gardens. The professor, who was
sitting at his desk before a pile of letters and replies submitted for
approval by me, pushed his glasses down and looked over them at me
with a whimsical smile that suggested amusement, impatience,
annoyance, and perhaps a faint trace of apology.

"Now, here's a letter," he said, with a deliberate gesture towards a
sheet of paper impaled on a file--"a letter that I suppose you
remember." He disengaged the sheet of paper and handed it to me.

"Oh yes," I replied, with a shrug; "of course the man is
mistaken--or--"

"Or what?" demanded Professor Farrago, tranquilly, wiping his glasses.

"--Or a liar," I replied.