was what he used.
He'd soak small pieces of meat in aniseed oil and stick them in his
pockets. But that stunt would only work with a bunch of giant dogs like
his. It was their size that got it across. Had they been a lot of
ordinary dogs it would have looked silly. And, besides, they didn't do
their regular tricks for aniseed. They did it for Captain Roberts's
club. He was a tough bird himself."

"He used to say that the art of training animals was the art of inspiring
them with fear. One of his assistants told me a nasty one about him
afterwards. They had an off month in Los Angeles, and Captain Roberts
got it into his head he was going to make a dog balance a silver dollar
on the neck of a champagne bottle. Now just think that over and try to
see yourself loving a dog into doing it. The assistant said he wore out
about as many sticks as dogs, and that he wore out half a dozen dogs. He
used to get them from the public pound at two and a half apiece, and
every time one died he had another ready and waiting. And he succeeded
with the seventh dog. I'm telling you, it learned to balance a dollar on
the neck of a bottle. And it died from the effects of the learning
within a week after he put it on the stage. Abscesses in the lungs, from
the stick."

"There was an Englishman came over when I was a youngster. He had
ponies, monkeys, and dogs. He bit the monkey's ears, so that, on the
stage, all he had to do was to make a move as if he was going to bite and
they'd quit their fooling and be good. He had a big chimpanzee that was
a winner. It could turn four somersaults as fast as you could count on
the back of a galloping pony, and he used to have to give it a real
licking about twice a week. And sometimes the lickings were too stiff,
and the monkey'd get sick and have to lay off. But the owner solved the
problem. He got to giving him a little licking, a mere taste of the
stick, regular, just before the turn came on. And that did it in his
case, though with some other case the monkey most likely would have got
sullen and not acted at all."

It was on that day that Harris Collins sold a valuable bit of information
to a lion man who needed it. It was off time for him, and his three
lions were boarding at Cedarwild. Their turn was an exciting and even
terrifying one, when viewed from the audience; for, jumping about and
roaring, they were made to appear as if about to destroy the slender
little lady who