ssion of the eyes, "I have
something to say to you, and I want to say it before it is too late.
There was no use sending for the doctor--I won't be here long."

At this Rounders offered a consolatory word to inspire hope, but Brinton
understood with what intent it was uttered and took no notice of it.

"Jim Rounders," pursued he, "I owe you something, and I want to pay you
before I die. It's about the 'meat-jerk.'"

Naturally the curiosity of Rounders was eager.

"Like all great inventions," continued the tamer, "it's as simple as A,
B, C when you know how it's done."

The secret, as explained by the sinking man, was in substance as
follows: It is a work of several months. You begin by giving the lion a
large piece of meat, and when he has polished it to the bone, you give
another piece, and when he fastens on that you pick up the bone. After
awhile you will be able to take the bone from under his mouth as you
slip the other piece of meat in its place. In time he gets to know that
when you take the first piece away from him, though it should be only
half finished, it is to be replaced by a larger piece. Gradually you let
a little time pass between the taking away and the giving, which he will
get accustomed to. This is the time you bow to the audience as if the
feat were finished, and when you give the second piece in an indifferent
manner, as if it were of no importance, the public will not see through
it.

"Just as you did not see through it," to resume the words of Brinton,
"though you watched me like a hawk."

"How simple!" said the enthusiastic listener.

"So simple," continued the wounded man with effort, "I'm sure you wonder
to yourself you never thought of it before."

Here he gasped for breath. After a pause he gathered himself together
for another effort, and went on.

"You tried it on Pompey. He was never trained, and of course you failed.
If you are afraid of handling Brutus, you can train Pompey--as I did
Brutus."

The tamer stopped again to get breath, and the pause was longer than
those which preceded it. He was weak unto death. The faint reflection of
a smile flitted over his features as he said in a hoarse whisper,

"My last performance now--no postponement--on account of the weather."

After another long pause, in the same hoarse whisper, he said,

"This secret--will be a fortune--to you, Jim Rounders. Now shake
hands--and let--me die."

And two hands clasped. One was warm, and pulsat