"Ostrich!" they shouted. "Poor old Bill--he thinks it's an ostrich!"
"Quite so, sir," I said, pleasantly but firmly, determining not to be
hoaxed again.
"Don't drivel that way," said the Tuttle person.
"Leave it to the driver, Jeff--maybe he'll believe _him_," said
Cousin Egbert almost sadly, whereupon the other addressed the cabby:
"Hey, Frank," he began, and continued with some French words, among
which I caught "vooley-vous, ally caffy, foomer"; and something that
sounded much like "kafoozleum," at which the cabby spoke at some
length in his native language concerning the ostrich. When he had
done, the Tuttle person turned to me with a superior frown.
"Now I guess you're satisfied," he remarked. "You heard what Frank
said--it's an Arabian muffin bird." Of course I was perfectly certain
that the chap had said nothing of the sort, but I resolved to enter
into the spirit of the thing, so I merely said: "Yes, sir; my error;
it was only at first glance that it seemed to be an ostrich."
"Come along," said Cousin Egbert. "I won't let him ride anything he
can't guess the name of. It wouldn't be right to his folks."
"Well, what's that, then?" demanded the other, pointing full at the
giraffe.
"It's a bally ant-eater, sir," I replied, divining that I should be
wise not to seem too obvious in naming the beast.
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