the dressing tent. The gasoline men were busy lighting their
lamps and hauling them on center and quarter pole, while the
menagerie attendants were turning the tongues of the cages about
so that the horses could be hitched on promptly after the show in
the big top began.

Some of the animals were munching hay, others of the caged beasts
were lying with their noses poked through between the bars of
their cages, blinking drowsily.

"I'd hate to be him," announced Teddy with a comprehensive wave
of the hand as they passed the giraffe, which stood silent in his
roped enclosure, his head far up in the shadows.

"Why?"

"For two reasons. Keeper tells me he can't make a sound.
Doesn't bray, nor whinny, nor growl, nor bark, nor--
can't do anything. I'd rather be a lion or a tiger or
something like that. If I couldn't do anything else, then,
I could stand off and growl at folks."

Phil nodded and smiled.

"And what's your other reason for being glad you are not
a giraffe?"

"Because--because--because when you had a sore throat think what
a lot of neck you'd have to gargle!"