114 FOUR-HANDED FOLK 



of Mr. Crowley's arm, for he was always ready 

 to thrust out one of those long, sinewy members 

 and snatch at hat, parasol, or anything he could 

 reach ; once in his clutches it was lost. A Park 

 policeman stood one day talking to him, inside 

 the rail by virtue of his office, while Crowley sat 

 on the floor close by the bars, absorbed in con- 

 templation of his brand new white gloves. Very 

 gently he pulled the tips of the fingers one 

 after the other, quietly loosening them, till sud- 

 denly, like a flash, he snatched off the glove 

 and bounded to the back of his cage. In vain 

 the hapless policeman commanded and coaxed, 

 begged and threatened. Mr. Crowley, entirely 

 unmoved, sat calmly down to enjoy his prize. 

 First he put it on his hand, using his teeth to 

 help, and then held it up for the audience to see, 

 with every finger spread, grinning with delight. 

 But, not being able to arrange it to his satis- 

 faction, he tore it to strings, and passed a happy 

 fifteen minutes while reducing it to its primitive 

 state of thread, holding one part in the bend of 

 the thigh — the monkey's convenient pocket — - 

 while he worked on another. 



On another occasion one of the Park men 

 went inside of the rail to speak to the chimpan- 

 zee. Crowley sat quietly on the floor looking 

 at him, and thrusting his hands out to play, as 

 was his custom. 



