ice
would shoot the brute, for I saw the possibilities of an advertisement
which would more than pay for the expensive meal which Wallace was
making from the trotting horse.

[Illustration: _"His vanity got the better of him when he turned his
back on the lion, to bow to the audience."_]

"Just as I reached the street, Broncho strolled up. As I said, he was a
queer-looking guy; his skin was copper-colored and he had piercing black
eyes and long, fuzzy black hair which fell down to his shoulders. His
nose was hooked and something about his face always reminded me of a
bird of prey. He was only a half-breed, but when I told him what had
occurred he was all Indian and he drew a long knife and started for the
Cockney, who gave only one look at the expression on Broncho's face and
then started for Harlem, touching only the high spots until he was quite
out of sight. Broncho didn't chase him; he just looked after him with a
smile on his face, glad to see him disappear, as there had been more or
less bad blood between them for a long time. Then he came to me and
laughed at the idea of danger and offered to go into the stable and put
Wallace back in the cage. I knew that it would be impossible until the
lion had gorged himself on horse meat, and now that the damage was done
I was in no hurry to allay the excitement until the police and reporters
arrived. We didn't have to wait long, for the crowd had grown until the
street was blocked, and, of course, the reporters asked more than a
thousand questions. When I had worked the sensation up pretty well I
consented to let Broncho take his training rod and go down, and I went
with him carrying a club and a pitchfork. Things commenced to happen
right away, for Wallace didn't wait for the call of time, but sailed
right into us, and when I saw that he was getting the better of Broncho
I made a bluff at going back to the carcass of the horse. Wallace
bounded back to protect it and crouched on it, snarling viciously, but
the delay gave me a chance to help Broncho up the stairway. There was
not enough of his trousers left to wad a gun, and while I was bandaging
up a deep claw wound in his thigh that advertisement seemed less and
less important to me, and I would have given a good deal to have Wallace
safely behind the bars of his cage again. He was contracted for four
weeks anyway, and it takes a pretty big sensation to be remembered for
more than thirty days in New York.

"Well, we fus