He sat on a deck chair, and when he was not tapping refractory bits of coal with them, he kept his feet—­on which he wore, after the manner of sandals, the holy relics of a pair of carpet slippers—­out of the way upon the mantel-piece, among the glass eyes.  And his trousers, by-the-by—­though they have nothing to do with his triumphs—­were a most horrible yellow plaid, such as they made when our fathers wore side-whiskers and there were crinolines in the land.  Further, his hair was black, his face rosy, and his eye a fiery brown; and his coat was chiefly of grease upon a basis of velveteen.  And his pipe had a bowl of china showing the Graces, and his spectacles were always askew, the left eye glaring nakedly at you, small and penetrating; the right, seen through a glass darkly, magnified and mild.  Thus his discourse ran:  “There never was a man who could stuff like me, Bellows, never.  I have stuffed elephants and I have stuffed moths, and the things have looked all the livelier and better for it.  And I have stuffed human beings—­chiefly amateur ornithologists.  But I stuffed a nigger once.

“No, there is no law against it.  I made him with all his fingers out and used him as a hat-rack, but that fool Homersby got up a quarrel with him late one night and spoilt him.  That was before your time.  It is hard to get skins, or I would have another.

“Unpleasant?  I don’t see it.  Seems to me taxidermy is a promising third course to burial or cremation.  You could keep all your dear ones by you.  Bric-a-brac of that sort stuck about the house would be as good as most company, and much less expensive.  You might have them fitted up with clockwork to do things.

“Of course they would have to be varnished, but they need not shine more than lots of people do naturally.  Old Manningtree’s bald head....  Anyhow, you could talk to them without interruption.  Even aunts.  There is a great future before taxidermy, depend upon it.  There is fossils again....”

He suddenly became silent.

“No, I don’t think I ought to tell you that.”  He sucked at his pipe thoughtfully.  “Thanks, yes.  Not too much water.

“Of course, what I tell you now will go no further.  You know I have made some dodos and a great auk?  No!  Evidently you are an amateur at taxidermy.  My dear fellow, half the great auks in the world are about as genuine as the handkerchief of Saint Veronica, as the Holy Coat of Treves.  We make ’em of grebes’ feathers and the like.  And the great auk’s eggs too!”

“Good heavens!”

“Yes, we make them out of fine porcelain.  I tell you it is worth while.  They fetch—­one fetched L300 only the other day.  That one was really genuine, I believe, but of course one is never certain.  It is very fine work, and afterwards you have to get them dusty, for no one who owns one of these precious eggs has ever the temerity to clean the thing.  That’s the beauty of the business.  Even if they suspect an egg they do not like to examine it too closely.  It’s such brittle capital at the best.