THE CHIMPANZEE. 



Ill 



scrape the last drop, it was removed, and there 

 followed a plate of fruit, sliced, but not small 

 enough for mouthfuls. Here the knife and fork 

 came in, and Mr. Crowley was as skillful in cut- 

 ting pieces and thrusting them into his mouth — 

 always with the fork — as any person. He even 

 went so far in imitation of the manners he had 

 seen, as to pause now and then with a mouthful 

 held up on his fork, ready to shove in as soon 

 as he had made room in that very capacious 

 receptacle, his mouth. After fruit came a cup 

 of milk, which he took by the handle and drank, 

 and lastly the cod-liver oil, and a lick or two of 

 the spoon while his keeper was replacing the 

 cork, and so not looking. 



When on his good behavior, he retired from 

 the table like a gentleman, and perhaps sprang 

 into his waiter's arms to be held while dinner 

 was removed by help of an assistant outside, or 

 mounted the table and danced a jig while his 

 attendant beat time for him. But if in a mis- 

 chievous frame of mind, with the disappearance 

 of the last course he suffered a sudden relapse 

 into monkey ism, kicked over table, dishes, oil- 

 bottle, and all, and darted to the roof of his cage, 

 out of the reach of vengeance. Even on these 

 occasions, however, it needed only a command 

 from his keeper, of whom he was very fond, to 

 bring him down meekly to lay his knife and fork 



