feet behind him, carrying a
long wooden shield, as we generally do in a narrow space. Rajah reached
his cage all right, and went in. You see, he couldn't go down the runway
any farther, for the door opening outward barred the passage. Behind
that door I had stationed a keeper, with orders to close it as soon as
Rajah was inside; but Rajah went in so silently that the keeper didn't
know it, the peep-holes in the door being too high for him to see very
well. The result was that the cage door stood open for a few seconds
after the tiger had gone in. It seems a little thing, but it nearly cost
me my life; for when I came up Rajah's head was right back of the open
door, and when I reached out my hand to close the door he sprang at me,
and in a second had me down, with his teeth in my arm and his claws
digging into my head through openings in the mask.

"Then you'd better believe there was a fight in that runway! The keepers
rushed in; Bonavita rushed in. They shot at him with revolvers, they
jabbed him with irons, they pounded at him with clubs; and one of the
blows that Rajah dodged knocked me senseless. Well, they got me out
finally. I guess the mask saved my life. But I didn't take Rajah into
the ring that evening, and Rajah won't be seen in the ring any more.
He's made trouble enough. Why, the things I could tell you about that
tiger would fill a book."

Some of these things he did tell me, for I brought the talk back to
Rajah whenever the chance offered. I well remember, for instance, the
occasion when I heard how Rajah once got out of his cage and chased a
quagga--one of those queer little animals that are half zebra and half
mule. It was late at night, and we had entered the runway, Mr. Bostock
and I, after the performance, for he wanted me to realize the perils of
this narrow boarded lane that circles all the dens and leads the lions
to the ring. It is indeed a terrifying place--a low, dimly lighted
passage, curving constantly, so that you see ahead scarcely twenty feet,
and are always turning a slow corner, always peering ahead uneasily and
listening! What is that? A soft tread? The glow of greenish eyeballs?
Who can tell when a bolt may slip or a board give way? So many things
have happened in these runways! Of course a lion has no business to be
out of his den, but--but suppose he is? Suppose you meet
him--now--there!

Well, it was here that I heard the story. Bonavita, it appears, was
standing on the bridge on