[Ill.u.s.tration: THE TAMER'S TRIUMPH. READING HIS NEWSPAPER IN THE LION'S CAGE.]

In support of this statement that lions are delicate, I remember hearing old John Smith, director of the Central Park Menagerie, set forth a list of lions' ailments, and the coddling and doctoring they require. Lion medicine is usually administered in the food or drink, but there are cases requiring more heroic measures, and then the animal must be bound down before the doctors can treat him. It should be remembered that lions in city menageries are more dangerous than circus lions, since they are either wild ones brought straight from the jungle and never tamed or rebellious ones, anarchist lions that have turned against their tamers, perhaps killed them, and have finally been sold to any zoological garden that would take them.

"When we have to rope a lion down to doctor him," said Smith, "we drop nooses through the top bars and catch his four legs, and let down one around his body. Then we haul these fast, and there you are. You can feel his pulse or give him stuff or pull out one of his teeth or anything."

"It must be pretty hard to pull a lion's tooth," I remarked.

"Not very. Here's the forceps I use; you see it isn't very big. This is for the upper jaw, and that other one is for the lower jaw."

I made some remark, meant to be facetious, about not giving lions gas, but the old man took me up sharply. "Certainly we give 'em gas. How else in the world do you think we operate on 'em? They get chloroform same as a person. I have a bag for it that fits over a lion's head, and pulls up tight with a string. In the bag is a sponge saturated with chloroform, and the first you know off goes Mr. Lion into quiet sleep, and you can do what you like with him. But you have to be mighty careful not to give him too much, and look sharp at his heart action, or you'll have a dead lion on your hands. Say, I've found out one thing chloroforming lions that lots of doctors don't know. It's this, that if a lion comes back hard to consciousness after you've put him to sleep, you can help things along by catching hold of his tail and heaving him up on his head. That sends the blood down to his brain, where you want it, and pretty soon you'll see his muscles begin to twitch, and back he comes. I told a doctor about this once, and he said he'd done the very same thing with patients."

Coming again to the need of patience, let me quote my friend "Bill"

Newman. "Why," said he, "I've spent weeks and weeks teaching an elephant to ring a bell--just that one thing. You have to sit by him hour after hour, giving him the bell in his trunk and giving it to him again when he drops it, and then again and again for a whole morning, and then for many mornings until he gets the idea and rings it right. It's the same way teaching an elephant to fan himself or teaching tricks to a clown elephant; you have to wait and wait, and never give up. Once an elephant understands what you want he'll do it, but it's awful hard sometimes making 'em understand."

"How do you teach them to stand on their heads and on their hind legs?"

I asked.

"With the same kind of patience and with tackle. Just heave 'em up or roll 'em over the way they're supposed to go and then keep at it. Some learn quicker than others. Once in a while you get a mean one, and then look out."

An instance of the affection felt for wild beasts by their tamers is offered in the case of Madame Bianca, the French tamer, who in the winter of 1900 was with the Bostock Wild Animal Show giving daily exhibitions in Baltimore, where her skill and daring with lions and tigers earned wide admiration. It will be remembered how fire descended suddenly on this menagerie one night and destroyed the animals amid fearful scenes. And in the morning Bianca stood in the ruins and looked upon the charred bodies of her pets. Had she lost her dearest friends, she could scarcely have shown deeper grief. She was in despair, and declared that she would never tame another group; she would leave the show business. And when the menagerie was stocked afresh with lions and tigers Bianca would not go near their cages. These were lions indeed, but not _her_ lions, and she shook her head and mourned for "Bowzer,"

the handsomest lioness in captivity, and "Spitfire," and "Juliette," and the black-maned "Brutus."

This recalls a story that Mr. Bostock told me, showing how Bianca's fondness for her lions persisted even in the face of fierce attack. It was in Kansas City, and for some days Spitfire had been working badly, so that on this particular afternoon Bianca had spent two hours in the big exhibition cage trying to get the lioness into good form. But Spitfire remained sullen and refused to do one perfectly easy thing, a jump over a pedestal.

"Ask Mr. Bostock to please come here," called Bianca, finally, quite at her wit's end, with the performance hour approaching and hers the chief act. To go on with Spitfire in rebellion would never do, for the spirit of mischief spreads among lions and tigers exactly as it spreads among children. Spitfire _must_ jump over that pedestal.

Mr. Bostock arrived presently, and at once entered the cage, carrying two whips, as is the custom. There is something in this man that impresses animals and tamers alike. It is not only that he is big and strong, and loves his animals, and does not fear them; that would scarcely account for his extraordinary prestige, which is his rather because he _knows_ lions and tigers as only a man can who has literally spent his life with them. From father and grandfather he has inherited precious and unusual lore of the cages. He was born in a menagerie, he married the daughter of a menagerie owner, he sleeps always within a few feet of the dens, he eats with roars of lions in his ears. And his principle is, and always has been, that he will enter _any_ cage at _any_ time if a real need calls him--which has led to many a situation like that created now by Spitfire's disobedience.

There were many groups in the menagerie at this time, each with its regular tamer; and while Bostock, as owner and director, watched over all of them, it often happened that months would pa.s.s without his putting foot inside this or that particular cage. And in the present case he was practically a stranger to the four lions and the tiger now ranged around on their pedestals in a semi-circle thirty feet in diameter, with big Brutus in the middle and snarling Spitfire at one end.

"Well," said Mr. Bostock, explaining what happened, "I saw that Bianca had made a mistake in handling Spitfire from too great a distance. She had stood about seven feet away, so I stepped three feet closer and lifted one of my whips. There were just two things Spitfire could do: she could spring at me and have trouble, or she could jump over the pedestal and have no trouble. She growled a little, looked at me, and then she jumped over that pedestal like a lady. I had called her bluff.

[Ill.u.s.tration: BIANCA RESCUES BOSTOCK FROM "BRUTUS."]

"The rest was easy. I put her through some other tricks, circled her around the cage a couple of times, and brought her back to her corner.

Then, as she crouched there and snarled at me, I played a tattoo with my whip-handle on the floor just in front of her. It was just a sort of flourish to finish off with, and it was one thing too much; for in doing this I turned quite away from the rest of the group and made Brutus think that I meant to hurt the lioness. He said to himself: 'Hullo!

Here's a stranger in our cage taking a whip to Spitfire. I'll just settle _him_.' And before I could move he sprang twenty feet off his pedestal, set his fangs in my thigh, and dragged me over to Bianca, as if to prove his gallantry. Then the Frenchwoman did a clever thing: she clasped her arms around his big neck, drew his head up, and fired her revolver close to his ear. Of course she fired only a blank cartridge, but it brought Brutus to obedience, for that was Bianca's regular signal in the act for the lions to take their pedestals; and the habit of his work was so strong in the old fellow that he dropped me and jumped back to his place.

"There wasn't any more to it except that I lay five weeks in bed with my wounds. But this will show you how Bianca loved those lions: she wouldn't let me lift a hand to punish Brutus. Of course I called for irons as soon as I got up, and, wounded or not, I would have taught Mr.

Brutus a few things before I left that cage if I could have had my way.

But Bianca pleaded for him so hard--why, she actually cried--that I hadn't the heart to go against her. She said it was partly my own fault for turning my back,--which was true,--and that Brutus was a good lion and had only tried to defend his mate, and a lot more, with tears and teasing, until I let him off, although I knew I could never enter Brutus's cage again after leaving it without showing myself master.

That's always the way with lions: if you once lose the upper hand you can never get it back."

III

BONAVITA DESCRIBES HIS FIGHT WITH SEVEN LIONS AND GEORGE ARSTINGSTALL TELLS HOW HE CONQUERED A MAD ELEPHANT

IN the course of days spent with Mr. Bostock and his menagerie, I observed many little instances of the tamer's affection for his animals.

I could see it in the constant fondling of the big cats by Bostock himself, and by Bonavita, his chief tamer, and even by the cage grooms.

And no matter how great the crush of business, there was always time for visiting a sick lioness out in the stable, who would never be better, poor thing, but should have all possible comforts for her last days. And late one afternoon I stood by while Bonavita led a powerful, yellow-maned lion into the arena cage and held him, as a mother might hold a suffering child, while the doctor, reaching cautiously through the bars, cut away a growth from the beast's left eye. It is true they used a local anesthetic; but even so, it hurt the lion, and Bonavita's position as he knelt and stroked the big head and spoke soothing words seemed to me as far as possible from secure. Yet it was plain that his only thought was to ease the lion's pain.

"I couldn't have done that with all my lions," Bonavita said to me after the operation; "but this one is specially trained. You know he lets me put my head in his mouth."

Bonavita is a handsome, slender man, with dark hair and eyes, quite the type of a Spanish gentleman; and I liked him not only for his mastery of twenty-odd lions, but because he had a gentle manner and was modest about his work. According to Mr. Bostock, Bonavita has but two strong affections: one for his old mother, and one for his lions. Occasionally I could get him aside for a talk, and that was a thing worth doing.

"People ask me such foolish questions about wild beasts," he said one day. "For instance, they want to know which would win in a fight, a lion or a tiger. I tell them that is like asking which would win in a fight, an Irishman or a Scotchman. It all depends on the particular tiger you have and the particular lion. Animals are just as different as men: some are good, some bad; some you can trust and some you can't trust."

"Which is the most dangerous lion you have?" I inquired.

"Well," said he, "that's one of those questions I don't know how to answer. If you ask which lion has been the most dangerous so far, I should say Denver, because he tore my right arm one day so badly that they nearly had to cut it off. Still, I think Ingomar is my most dangerous lion, although he hasn't got his teeth in me yet; he's tried, but missed me. It doesn't matter, though, what I think, for it may be one of these lazy, innocent-looking lions that will really kill me. They seem tame as kittens, but you can't tell what's underneath. Suppose I turn my back and one of them springs--why, it's all off."

Another day he said: "A man gets more confidence every time he faces an angry lion and comes out all right. Finally he gets so sure of his power that he does strange things. I have seen a lion coming at me and have never moved, and the lion has stopped. I have had a lion strike at me and the blow has just grazed my head, and have stood still, with my whip lifted, and the lion has gone off afraid. One day in the ring a lion caught my left arm in his teeth as I pa.s.sed between two pedestals. I didn't pull away, but stamped my foot and cried out, 'Baltimore, what do you mean?' The stamp of my foot was the lion's cue to get off the pedestal, and Baltimore loosed his jaws and jumped down. His habit of routine was stronger than his desire to bite me."

Again, Bonavita explained that there is some strange virtue in carrying in the left hand a whip which is never used. The tamer strikes with his right-hand whip when it is necessary, but only lifts his left-hand whip and holds it as a menace over the lion. And it is likely, Bonavita thinks, that to strike with that reserve whip would be to dispel the lion's idea that it stands for some mysterious force beyond his daring.

"You see, lions aren't very intelligent," said he; "they don't understand what men are or what they want. That is our hardest work--to make a lion understand what we want. As soon as he knows that he is expected to sit on a pedestal he is willing enough to do it, especially if he gets some meat; but it often takes weeks before he finds out what we are driving at. You can see what slow brains lions have, or tigers either, by watching them fight for a stick or a tin cup. They couldn't get more excited over a piece of meat. One of the worst wounds I ever got came from going into a lion's den after an overcoat that he had dragged away from a foolish spectator who was poking it at him."

[Ill.u.s.tration: BONAVITA'S FIGHT WITH SEVEN LIONS IN THE RUNWAY.]

I finally got Bonavita to tell me about the time when the lion Denver attacked him. It was during a performance at Indianapolis, in the fall of 1900, and the trouble came at the runway end where the two circular pa.s.sages from the cages open on an iron bridge that leads to the show-ring. Bonavita had just driven seven lions into this narrow s.p.a.ce, and was waiting for the attendants to open the iron-barred door, when Denver sprang at him and set his teeth in his right arm. This stirred the other lions, and they all turned on Bonavita; but, fortunately, only two could reach him for the crush of bodies. Here was a tamer in sorest need, for the weight of the lions kept the iron doors from opening and barred out the rescuers. In the audience was wildest panic, and the building resounded with shouts and screams and the roars of angry lions.

Women fainted; men rushed forward brandishing revolvers, but dared not shoot; and for a few moments it seemed as if the tamer was doomed.

But Bonavita's steady nerve saved him. As Denver opened his jaws to seize a more vital spot, the tamer drove his whip-handle far down into his red throat, and then, with a cudgel pa.s.sed in to him, beat the brute back. The other lions followed, and this freed the iron door, which the grooms straightway opened, and in a moment the seven lions were leaping toward the ring as if nothing had happened. And last of the seven came Denver, driven by Bonavita, white-faced and suffering, but the master now, and greeted with cheers and roars of applause. No one realized how badly he was hurt, for his face gave no sign. He bowed to the audience, cracked his whip, and began the act as usual. As he went on he grew weaker, but stuck to it until he had put the lions through four of their tricks, and then he staggered out of the ring into the arms of the doctors, who found him torn with ugly wounds that kept him for weeks in the hospital. That, I think, is an instance of the very finest lion-tamer spirit.

Among various meetings with tamers of animals, I recall with particular pleasure one afternoon when my friend Newman brought to see me a tamer famous in his day--George Arstingstall. I knew that Arstingstall was the first man in this country to work lions, tigers, leopards, elephants, sheep, monkeys, and various other beasts all in a great circular cage.

Also that his fame had spread across Europe and his daring feats been shown from London to Moscow; but I did not know what a simple, modest man he was, nor realize until then the charm of listening to a couple of circus veterans, comrades for years, talking of the old stirring days.

Here were two men getting on to sixty, yet talking with the eagerness of boys about their exploits and perils under fang and claw.

It was: "Say, Bill, do you remember when that bull pup caught Topsy by the trunk and stampeded the--"

"Stampeded the whole business. Do I remember, George? Up in Boston.

Bing! bang! over the Common, and the Old Man wild! Well I guess. But, say, George, that wasn't as bad as the stampede in Troy, when those four elephants cleaned out the rolling-mill. Oh, what a night! Let's see.

There was Nan and--"

"And Tip."

"Yes, poor old Tip. I strangled him at Bridgeport. You remember, George, he wouldn't take the poison. Oh, he was no fool, Tip wasn't, and I told the Old Man we'd have to put nooses on him and cut off his wind."

"I know, Bill, the Old Man said it wasn't possible to strangle an elephant--"

"And say, George, I had his wind shut off inside of three minutes after the boys began to haul. Oh, you can't beat three sheave-blocks, George, for finishing off a bad tusker. Well, this night in Troy those four elephants went sailing through this rolling-mill, trumpeting like mad, right over the hot iron, scaring those Irishmen blue, and then smashed down a steep refuse bank into the mud. Oh, what looking elephants! Nan had her legs all burned, and--"

"I know, and say, Bill, do you remember where I found Tip? Three miles out of Troy, standing up in a corn-field sound asleep, and two little boys on a rail fence looking at him. He'd knocked over a shanty and smashed open a barrel of whisky--a whole barrel, Bill--and there he was sound asleep. When I saw those little boys I made up my mind I'd found Tip.