I forgot to mention that, as he closed the chair door upon me, Memnon handed me back the silver dollar I had given him.
"What is this, Memnon?" said I.
"The dollar you wished me to keep for you, sir," he replied.
"But I intended it for you," said I.
His face flushed.
"I am just as much obliged, sir, but, really, I couldn't, you know. We don't take tips in Olympus, sir."
"Indeed?" said I. "Well—I'm sorry to have offended you, Memnon. I meant it all right. Why didn't you tell me when I gave it you?"
"I should have given you a check for it, sir. I supposed you didn't wish to carry anything so heavy about with you."
"Ah!" said I, replacing the dollar in my pocket. "Thank you for your care of it, Memnon. No offence, I hope?"
"None at all, sir," he replied, again showing his wonderful ivory teeth. "I don't take offence at anything so trifling. Had you handed me a billion dollars, I should have declined to wait on you."
And he bowed me away in a fashion which made me feel keenly the narrowness of my escape.
VII
Æsculapius, M.D
We had not gone very far along when the pain in my side became poignant and I called out of the window to Sambo:
"Sammy, is there a doctor anywhere on the way out to the Zoo?" I asked.
"Yassir," he replied, slowing down a trifle. "We gotter go right by de doh ob Dr. Skilapius."
"Doctor who?" I asked—the name was new to me.
"'Tain't Skill-apius," growled the boy behind, who seemed rather jealous that I had taken no notice of him. "It's Eee-skill-apius."
"Oh," said I, beginning to catch their drift. "Dr. Æsculapius. Is that what you are trying to say?"
"Yassir," said both boys. "Dass de man."
"Well, stop at his office a moment," said I. "I'm feeling a trifle ill."
In a few minutes we drew up before a large door to the right of the corridor before which there hung a shingle marked in large gilt letters:
ÆSCULAPIUS, M.D
Office Hours: 10 to 12.
Tuesdays.
I knocked at the door and was promptly admitted.
"I wish to see the doctor," said I.
"This is Monday, sir," the maid replied—I couldn't quite place her, but she seemed rather above her station and was stunningly beautiful.
"What of that?" I demanded, as fiercely as I could, considering how pretty the maid was.
"The doctor can only be seen on Tuesdays," said she. "It's on the door."
"But I'm sick," I cried. "Very sick, indeed."
"No doubt," she replied, with a shrug of her shoulders that I found very fetching. "Else you would not have come. But you are not so sick that you can't wait until to-morrow, or if you are, you might as well die, because the doctor won't take a case he can't think over a week."
"Nice arrangement, that," said I, scornfully. "It may do very well for immortals, but for a mortal it's pretty poor business."
The maid's manner underwent an immediate change.
"Excuse me, sir," she said, making me a courtesy. "I did not know you were a mortal. I presumed you were a minor god. The doctor will see you at once."
I was ushered into the consulting-room immediately—in fact, too quickly. I wanted to thank the pretty maid for taking me for an immortal. There was no time for this, however, for in a moment Æsculapius himself appeared.
"You must pardon Alcestis," he said, after the first greetings were over. "She is new to the business and doesn't know a god from a hole in the ground. She presumed you were immortal and did not realize the emergency."
"That's all right, doctor," said I, glad to learn who the entrancing person at the door was. "I've called to see you because—"
"Pray be silent," the doctor interrupted, holding his hand up in admonition. "Let me discover your symptoms for myself. It is the surer method. Physicians in your world are frequently led astray by placing too much reliance upon what their patients tell them. I have devised a new system. Believe nothing the patient says. See? If a man tells me he has a headache, I send him to a chiropodist. If his ankle pains him, I send him to an oculist. If he says his chest is oppressed, I have him treated for spinal meningitis; and an alleged pain in the back my assistants cure by placing a mustard plaster on the throat."
"Then your medical principles are based on what, doctor?" I asked, somewhat amused.
"A simple motto which prevails among you mortals: 'All men are liars'—'Omnes homines mendaces sunt.' It is safer than your accepted methods below. A sick man is the last man in the universe to describe his symptoms accurately. The mere fact that he is ill distorts his judgment. Therefore, I never allow it. If I can't find out for myself what is the matter with a patient, I give up the case."
"And the patient dies?" I suggested.
"Not if he is an immortal," he replied, quietly. "Come over here," he added, indicating a spot near the window where there was a strong light. I went, and Æsculapius, taking a pair of eye-glasses from a cabinet in one corner of his apartment, placed them on the bridge of his nose.
"Now look out of the window," said he. "To the left."
I obeyed at once. What I saw may not be described. I shrank back in horror, for I saw so much real suffering that my own trouble grew less in intensity.
"Now look me straight in the eye," said Æsculapius, an amused smile playing about his lips.
I turned my vision straight upon his glasses and was abashed. I averted my glance.
"Nonsense," said he, taking me by the shoulders. "Look at my pupils—straight—don't be afraid—there! That's it. These glasses won't hurt you, and, after all, I'm not very terrible," he added, genially.
It required an effort, but I made it, although, in so doing, I seemed to be turning my soul inside out for his inspection.
"H'm," breathed Æsculapius. "Rather serious. You think you have appendicitis."
"Have I?" I cried.
Æsculapius laughed. "Have you?" he asked. "What do you think you think?"
"I think I have," said I, my heart growing faint at the very thought I thought I was thinking.
"You are at least sure of your convictions," said Æsculapius. "Now, as a matter of fact, the thoughts your thoughtful nature has induced you to think are utterly valueless. You have a pain in your side?"
"Yes," said I. "And a very painful pain in my side—and I am not putting on any side in my pain either," I added.
"No doubt," said Æsculapius. "But are you sure it is in your side, or isn't it your chest that aches a trifle, eh?"
"Not much," said I, growing doubtful on the subject.
"Still it aches," said he.
"Yes," I answered, the pain in my side weakening in favor of one in my chest. "It does." And it really did, like the deuce.
"Now about that pain in your chest," said Æsculapius. "Isn't it rather higher up—in your throat, instead of your chest?"
My throat began to hurt, and abominably. Every particle of it throbbed with pain, and my chest was immediately relieved.
"I think," said I, weakly, "that the pain is rather in my throat than in my chest."
"But your side doesn't ache at all?" suggested Æsculapius.
I had forgotten my side altogether.
"Not a bit," said I; and it didn't.
"So far, so good," said the doctor. "Now, my friend, about this throat trouble of yours. Do you think you have diphtheria, or merely toothache?"
I hadn't thought of toothache before, but as soon as the doctor mentioned it, a pang went through my lower jaw, and my larynx seemed all right again.
"Well, doctor," said I, "as a matter of fact, the pain does seem to be in my wisdom teeth."
"So-called," said he, quietly. "More tooth than wisdom, generally. And not in your throat?" continued the doctor.
"Not a bit of it," said I. My throat seemed strong enough for a political campaign in which I was principal speaker. "It's all in my teeth."
"Upper or lower?" he asked, with a laugh, and then he gazed fixedly at me.
I had not realized that I had upper teeth until he spoke, and a shudder went through me as a semicircle of pain shot through my upper jaw.
"Upper," I retorted, with some surliness.
"Verging a trifle on your cheekbones, and thence to the optic nerve," he said, calmly, still gazing into my soul. "I'll try your sight. Look at that card over there, and tell me—"
"What nonsense is this, doctor?" I cried, angry at his airy manner and manifest control over my symptoms. "There is nothing the matter with my eyes. They're as good as any one of the million eyes of your friend the Argus."
"Then what, in the name of Jupiter, is the matter with you?" he ejaculated, elevating his eyebrows.
"Nothing at all," said I, sulkily.
Æsculapius threw himself on the sofa and roared with laughter.
"Perfectly splendid!" he said, when he had recovered from his mirth. "Perfectly splendid! You are the best example of the value of my system I've had in a long time. Now let me show you something," he added. "Put these glasses on."
He took the glasses from his nose and put them astride of mine, and lead me before a mirror—a cheval-glass arrangement that stood in one corner of the room.
"Now look yourself straight in the eye," said he.
I did so, and truly it was as if I looked upon the page of a book printed in the largest and clearest type. I hesitate to say what I saw written there, since the glass was strong enough to reach not only the mind itself, but further into the very depths of my subself-consciousness. On the surface, man thinks well of himself; this continues in modified intensity to his self-consciousness, but the fool does not live who, in his subself-consciousness, the Holy of Holies of Realization, does not know that he is a fool.
"Take 'em off," I cried, for they seemed to burn into the very depths of my soul.
"That isn't necessary," said Æsculapius, kindly. "Just turn your eyes away from the glass a moment and they won't bother you. I want to cure this trouble of yours."
I stopped looking at myself in the mirror and the tense condition of my nerves was immediately relieved.
"Feel better right away, eh?" he asked.
"Yes," I admitted.
"So I thought," he said. "You've momentarily given up self-contemplation. Now lower your gaze. Look at your chest a moment."
Just what were the properties of the glass I do not know, nor do I know how one's chest should look, but, as I looked down, I found that just as I could penetrate to the depths of my mind through my eyes, so was it possible for me to inspect myself physically.
"Nothing the matter there, eh?" said Æsculapius.
"Not that I can see," said I.
"Nor I," said he. "Now, if you think there is anything the matter with you anywhere else," he added, "you are welcome to use the glasses as long as you see fit."
I took a sneaking glance at my right side and was immediately made aware of the fact that all was well with me there, and that all my trouble had come from my ill-advised "wondering" whether that Midas omelet would bother me or not.
"These glasses are wonderful," said I.
"They are a great help," said Æsculapius.
"And do you always permit your patients to put them on?" I asked.
"Not always," said he. "Sometimes people really have something the matter with them. More often, of course, they haven't. It would never do to let a really sick man see his condition. If they are ill, I can see at once what is the matter by means of these spectacles, and can, of course, prescribe. If they are not, there is no surer means of effecting a cure than putting these on the patient's nose and letting him see for himself that he is all right."
"They have all the quality of the X-ray light," I suggested, turning my gaze upon an iron safe in the corner of the room, which immediately disclosed its contents.
"They are X-ray glasses," said Æsculapius. "In a good light you can see through anything with 'em on. I have lenses of the same kind in my window, and when you came up I looked at you through the window-pane and saw at once that there was nothing the matter with you."
"I wish our earthly doctors had glasses like these," I ventured, taking them off, for truly I was beginning to fancy a strain.
"They have—or at least they have something quite as good," said Æsculapius. "They are all my disciples, and in the best instances they can see through the average patient without them. They have insight. You don't believe you deceive your physician, do you?"
"I have sometimes thought so," said I, not realizing the trap the doctor was setting.
"How foolish!" he cried. "Why should you wish to?"
I was covered with confusion.
"Never mind," said Æsculapius, smiling pleasantly. "You are only human and cannot help yourself. It is your imagination leads you astray. Half the time when you send for your physician there is nothing the matter with you."
"He always prescribes," I retorted.
"That is for your comfort, not his," said Æsculapius, firmly.
"And sometimes they operate when it isn't necessary," I put in, persistently.
"True," said Æsculapius. "Very true. Because if they didn't, the patient would die of worry."
"Humph!" said I, incredulous. "I never knew that the operation for appendicitis was a mind cure."
"It is—frequently," observed the doctor. "There are more people, my friend, who have appendicitis on their minds than there are those who have it in their vermiforms. Don't forget that."
It was a revelation, and, to tell the truth, it has been a revelation of comfort ever since.
"I fancy, doctor," said I, after a pause, "that you are a Christian Scientist. All troubles are fanciful and indicative of a perverse soul."
Æsculapius flushed.
"If one of the gods had said that," he replied, "I should have operated upon him. As a mortal, you are privileged to say unpleasant things, just as a child may say things to his elders with impunity which merit extreme punishment. Christian Science is all right when you are truly well—in good physical condition. It is a sure cure for imaginary troubles, but when you are really sick, it is not of Olympus, but of Hades."
Æsculapius spoke with all the passion of a mortal, and I was embarrassed. "I did not mean to say anything unpleasant, doctor," said I.
"That's all right, my lad," said Æsculapius, patting me on the back. "I knew that. If I hadn't known it, you'd have been on the table by this time. And now, good-bye. Curb your imagination. Think about others. Don't worry about yourself without cause, and never send for a doctor unless you know there's something wrong. If I had my way you mortals would be deprived of imagination. That is your worst disease, and if at any time you wish yours amputated, come to me and I'll fix you out."
"Thanks, doctor," I replied; "but I don't think I'll accept your offer, because I need my imagination in my business."
And then, realizing that I had received my congé, I prepared to depart.
"How much do I owe you, doctor?" I asked, putting my hand into the pocket of my gown, confident of finding whatever I should need.
"Nothing," said he. "The real physician can never be paid. He either restores your health or he does not. If he restores your health, he saves your life, and he is entitled to what your life is worth. If he does not restore your health—he has failed, and is entitled to nothing. All you have will never pay your doctor for what he does for you. Therefore, go in peace."
I stood abashed in the presence of this wise man, and, as I went forth from his office, I realized the truth of what he had said. In our own world we place a value upon the service of the man who carries us over the hard and the dark places. Yet who can really repay him for all that he does for us when by his skill alone we are rescued from peril?
I re-entered my sedan-chair and set the blackies off again, with something potent in my mind—how much I truly owed to the good man who has taken at times the health of my children, of my wife, of myself, in his hands and has seen us safely through to port. I have not yet been able to estimate it, but if ever he reads these lines, he will know that I pay him in gratitude that which the world with all its wealth cannot give.
"Now for the Zoo, boys," I cried. "Æsculapius has fixed me up."
And we scampered on.
VIII
At the Zoo
We had not travelled far from the office of Æsculapius when my little carriers turned from the broad and beautiful corridor into a narrow passage, through which they proceeded with some difficulty until we reached the other side of this strangely constructed home of the gods. As we emerged into the light of day, the view that presented itself was indescribably beautiful. I have looked from our own hills at home upon many a scene of grandeur. From the mountain peaks of New Hampshire, with the sun streaming down upon me, I have looked upon the valleys beneath through rifts in clouds that had not ventured so high, and were drenching the glorious green below with refreshing rains, and have stood awed in the presence of one of the simplest moods of nature. But the sight that greeted my eyes as I passed along that exterior road of Olympus, under the genial auspices of those wonderful gods, appealed to something in my soul which had never before been awakened, and which I shall never be able adequately to describe. The mere act of seeing seemed to be uplifting, and, from the moment I looked downward upon the beloved earth, I ceased to wonder that gods were godlike—indeed, my real wonder was that they were not more so. It seemed difficult to believe that there was anything earthly about earth. The world was idealized even to myself, who had never held it to be a bad sort of place. There were rich pastures, green to the most soul-satisfying degree, upon which cattle fed and lived their lives of content; here and there were the great cities of earth seen through a haze that softened all their roughness; nothing sordid appeared; only the fair side of life was visible.
And I began to see how it came about that these Olympian gods had lost control over man. If the world, with all its joys and all its miseries, presents to the controlling power merely its joyous side, what sympathy can one look for in one's deity? There was Paris and Notre Dame in the sunlight. But the Morgue at the back of Notre Dame—in the shadow of its sunlit towers—that was not visible to the eye of the casual god who drove his blackamoors along that entrancing roadway. There was London and the inspiring pile of Westminster showing up its majestic top, lit by the wondrous light of the sun—but still undiscovered of the gods there rolled on its farther side the Thames, dark as the Styx, a very grave of ambition, yet the last solace of many a despairing soul. London Bridge may tell the gods of much that may not be seen from that glorious driveway along the exterior of Olympus.
I found myself growing maudlin, and I pulled myself together.
"Magnificent view, Sammy," said I.
"Yassir," he replied, trotting along faithfully. "Dass what dey all says. I 'ain't nebber seen it. 'Ain't got time to look at it."
"Well, stop a moment and look," said I. "Isn't it magnificent?"
The blackies stopped and looked.
"Putty good," said Sammy, "but I doan' care fo' views," he added. "Dey makes me dizzy."
I gave Sammy up from that moment. He was well carved, a work of art, in fact, but he was essentially modern, and I was living in the antique.
"Hustle along to the Zoo," I cried, with some impatience, and I was truly "hustled."
"Here we is," said Sammy, settling down on his haunches at the end of a five-mile trot. "Dis is it."
We had stopped before a gate not entirely unlike those the Japanese erect before popular places of amusement they frequent.
I descended from the chair and was greeted by an attendant who demanded to know what I wished to see.
"The animals," said I.
He laughed. "Well," he said, "I'll show you what I've got, but truly most of them have gone off on vacation."
"Is the Trojan Horse here?" I demanded.
"No," said he. "He's in the repair shop. One of his girders is loose, and the hinges on his door rusted and broke last week. His interior needs painting, and his left hind-leg has been wobbly for a long time. It was really dangerous to keep him longer without repairs."
I was much disappointed. In visiting the Olympian Zoo I was largely impelled by a desire to see the Trojan Horse and compare him with the Coney Island Elephant, which, with the summer hotels of New Jersey and the Statue of Liberty, at that time dominated the minor natural glories of the American coast in the eyes of passengers on in-coming steamships. I think I should even have ventured a ride in his capacious interior despite what Sammy had said of his friskiness and the peril of his action to persons susceptible to sea-sickness.
"Too bad," said I, swallowing my disappointment as best I could. "Still, you have other attractions. How about the Promethean vulture? Is he still living?"
"Unfortunately, no," said the attendant. "He was taken out last year and killed. Got too proud to live. He put in a complaint about his food. Said Prometheus was a very interesting man, but as a diet he was monotonous and demanded a more diversified menu. Said he'd like to try Apollo and a Muse or two, for a little while, and preferred Cupids on toast for Sunday-night tea."
"What a vulturian vulture!" said I.
"Wasn't he?" laughed the attendant. "We replied by wringing his neck, and served him up in a chicken salad to a party of tourists from Hades."
This struck me as reasonable, and I said so.
"Well, whatever you happen to have on hand will satisfy me," I added. "Just let me see what animals you have and I'll be content."
"Very well," replied the attendant. "Step this way."
He took me along a charming pathway bordered with many a beautiful tree and adorned with numerous flowers of wondrous fragrance.
"This path is not without interest," he said; "all the trees and shrubs have a history. That laurel over there, for instance, used to be a Daphne. She and Jupiter had a row and he planted her over there. Makes a very pretty tree, eh?"
"Extremely," said I. "Have you many similar ventures?"
"Oh yes. Our botanical gardens are full of them," he replied. "Those trees to the right are Baucis and Philemon. That lotos plant on the left used to be Dryope, and when Adonis isn't busy valeting at the hotel, he comes down here and blooms as an anemone, into which, as you are probably aware, he was changed by Venus. That pink thing by the fountain is Hyacinthus, and over there by the pond is where Narcissus blooms. He's a barber in his off hours."
I had already learned that, so expressed no surprise.
"That's a stunning sunflower you have," I ventured, pointing to a perfect specimen thereof directly ahead of us.
"Yes," said the attendant. "That's Clytie. She's only potted. We don't set her out permanently, because the royal family like to have her on the table at state dinners. And she, poor girl, rather enjoys it. Apollo is generally to be found at these dinners either as a guest or playing a zither or a banjo behind a screen. Wherever he is, the sunflower turns and it affords considerable amusement among Jupiter's guests to watch it. Jupiter has christened Clytie the Sherlock Holmes of Olympus, because wherever Apollo is she spots him. Sometimes when he isn't present, he has to be very careful in his statements about where he has been, for long habit has made Clytie unerring in her instinct."
This seemed to me to be a rather good revenge on Apollo for his very ungodlike treatment of Clytie, and if half the attendant told me that day at the Zoo is true, this excessively fickle Olympian is probably sorry by this time that he treated her originally with such uncalled for disdain.
"Come over here and see the bear-pit," said the guide. I obeyed with alacrity, and, leaning over the rail, had the pleasure of seeing the most beautiful bruin my eyes had ever rested upon. She was as glossy as a new silk hat; her eyes were as soft and timid as those of a frightened deer, and, when she moved, she was the perfection of grace.
"Good-morning, Callisto," said my guide.
"Same to you, my dear Cephalus," the bear returned, in a sweet feminine voice that entranced me.
"How are things with you to-day?" asked Cephalus, with a kindly smile.
"Oh, I can't growl," laughed Callisto—it was evident that the unfortunate woman was not taking her misfortune too seriously. "Only I wish you'd tell people who come here that while I undoubtedly am a bear, I have not yet lost my womanly taste, and I don't want to be fed all the time on buns. If anybody asks you what you think I'd like, tell them that an occasional omelette soufflée, or an oyster pâté, or a platter of petits fours would please me greatly."
"I shall do it, Callisto," said the keeper, as he started to move away. "Meanwhile, here's a stick of chewing-gum for you." Callisto received it with a manifestation of delight which moved me greatly, and I bethought myself of the magic properties of my coat, and plunging my hand into its capacious pockets, I found there an oyster pâté that made my mouth water, and an omelette soufflée that looked as if it had been made by a Parisian milliner, it was so dainty.
"If madam will permit me," said I, with a bow to Callisto.
"Thank you kindly," the bear replied, in that same thrillingly sweet voice, and dancing with joy. "You are a dear, good man, and if you ever have an enemy, let me know and I'll hug him to death."
As we again turned to go, Cephalus laughed. "Queer case that!" he said. "You'd have thought Juno would let up on that poor woman, but she doesn't for a little bit."
"Well—a jealous woman, my dear Cephalus—"
"True," said he. "That's all true enough, but, great Heavens, man, Juno ought to be used to it by this time with a husband like Jupiter. She's overstocked this Zoo a dozen times already with her jealous freaks, and Jupiter hasn't reformed once. What good does it do?"
"Doesn't she ever let 'em off?" I asked. "Doesn't Callisto ever have a Sunday out, for instance?"
"Yes, but always as a bear, and the poor creature doesn't dare take her chance with the other wild beasts—the real ones. She's just as afraid of bears as she ever was, and if she sees a plain, every-day cow coming towards her, she runs shrieking back to her pit again."
"Poor Callisto," said I. "And Actæon? How about him?"
"He's here—but he's a holy terror," replied Cephalus, shaking his head. "He gets loose once in a while, and then everybody has to look out for himself, and frankly," Cephalus added, his voice sinking to a whisper, "I don't blame him. Diana treated him horribly."
"I always thought so," said I. "He really wasn't to blame."
"Certainly not," observed Cephalus. "If people will go in swimming out-of-doors, it's their own fault if chance wayfarers stumble upon them. To turn a man into a stag and then set his own dogs on him for a thing he couldn't help strikes me as rank injustice."
"Wonder to me that Jupiter doesn't interfere in this business," said I. "He could help Callisto out without much trouble."
"The point about that is that he's afraid," Cephalus explained. "Juno has threatened to sue him for divorce if he does, and he doesn't dare brave the scandal."
We had by this time reached a long, low building that looked like a stable, and, as we entered, Cephalus observed:
"This is our fire-proof building where we keep our inflammable beasts. That big, sleeping creature that looks like a mastodon lizard is the dragon that your friend St. George, of London, got the best of, and sent here with his compliments. I'll give the beast a prod and let you see how he works."
Cephalus was as good as his word, and for a moment I wished he wasn't. Such a din as that which followed the dragon's awakening I never heard before, and every time the horrible beast opened his jaws it was as if a fire-works factory had exploded.
"Very dangerous creature that," said Cephalus. "But he is splendid for fêtes. Shows off beautifully in the dark. I'll prod him again and just you note the prismatic coloring of his flames. Get up there, Fido," he added, poking the dragon with his stick a second time. "Wake up, and give the gentleman an illumination."
The scene of the moment before was repeated, only with greater intensity, and even in the sunlight I could see that the various hues his fiery breathings took on were gorgeous beyond description. A bonfire built of red, pink, green, and yellow lights, backed up by driftwood in a fearful state of combustion, about describes it.
"Superb," said I, nearly overcome by the grandeur of the scene.
"Well, just imagine it on a dark night!" cried Cephalus, enthusiastically. "Fido is very popular as a living firework, but he's a costly luxury."
I laughed. "Costly?" said I. "I don't see why. Fireworks as grand as that must cost a deal more than he does."
"You don't know," said Cephalus, pressing his lips together. "Why, that dragon eats ten tons of cannel coal a day, and it takes the combined efforts of six stokers, under the supervision of an expert engineer, to keep his appetite within bounds. You never saw such an eater, and as for drinking—well, he's awful. He drinks sixteen gallons of kerosene at luncheon."
I eyed Cephalus narrowly, but beyond a wink at the dragon, I saw no reason to believe that he was deceiving me.
"Then he sets fire to things, and altogether he's an expensive beast Aren't you, Fido?"
"Yep," barked the dragon.
"Now, over there," continued the guide, patting the dragon on the head, whereat the fearful beast wagged his tail and breathed a thousand pounds of steam from his nostrils to express his pleasure. "Over there are the fire-breathing bulls—all the animals here are fire-breathing. The bulls give us a lot of trouble. You can't feed 'em on coal, because their teeth are not strong enough to chew it; and you can't feed 'em on hay, because they'd set fire to it the minute they breathed on it; and you can't put 'em out to pasture because they'd wither up a sixty-acre lot in ten minutes. It's an actual fact that we have to send for Jason three times a day to come here and feed them. He's the only person about who can do it, and how he does it no one knows. He pats them on the neck, and they stop breathing fire. That's all we know."
"But they must eat something. What does Jason give them?" I demanded.