ed a low,
tense growl, flattened his ears back, and soared into the air, his paws
spread so that the claws stood out like talons, his tail behind him as
stiff and straight as a rod. Neither did the man crouch or flee, nor did
the beast attain to him. At the height of his leap the rope tightened
taut on his neck, causing him to describe a somersault and fall heavily
to the floor on his side.

Before he could regain his feet, Mulcachy was upon him, shouting to his
small audience: "Here's where we pound the argument out of him!" And
pound he did, on the nose with the butt of the whip, and jab he did, with
the iron fork to the ribs. He rained a hurricane of blows and jabs on
the animal's most sensitive parts. Ever Ben Bolt leaped to retaliate,
but was thrown by the ten men tailed on to the rope, and, each time, even
as he struck the floor on his side, Mulcachy was upon him, pounding,
smashing, jabbing. His pain was exquisite, especially that of his tender
nose. And the creature who inflicted the pain was as fierce and terrible
as he, even more so because he was more intelligent. In but few minutes,
dazed by the pain, appalled by his inability to rend and destroy the man
who inflicted it, Ben Bolt lost his courage. He fled ignominiously
before the little, two-legged creature who was more terrible than himself
who was a full-grown Royal Bengal tiger. He leaped high in the air in
sheer panic; he ran here and there, with lowered head, to avoid the rain
of pain. He even charged the sides of the arena, springing up and vainly
trying to climb the slippery vertical bars.

Ever, like an avenging devil, Mulcachy pursued and smashed and jabbed,
gritting through his teeth: "You will argue, will you? I'll teach you
what argument is! There! Take that! And that! And that!"

"Now I've got him afraid of me, and the rest ought to be easy," he
announced, resting off and panting hard from his exertions, while the
great tiger crouched and quivered and shrank back from him against the
base of the arena-bars. "Take a five-minute spell, you fellows, and
we'll got our breaths."

Lowering one of the iron chairs, and attaching it firmly in its place on
the floor, Mulcachy prepared for the teaching of the first trick. Ben
Bolt, jungle-born and jungle-reared, was to be compelled to sit in the
chair in ludicrous and tragic imitation of man-creatures. But Mulcachy
was not quite ready. The first lesson of fear of him must be reitera