"Tchah!"
The gorilla's eyes lost their ferocity, its lips closed over the hideous teeth, its arms and body grew limp, and a plaintive whine escaped it, like a human cry of distress.
The next moment Stringer the Fearless, had extended a hand into the cage and gently pressed the gorilla's head to the ground!
If ever an animal knew its master, that poor subjugated brute in the cage certainly did. It literally bit the dust, and from the peculiar noise it kept making I gathered that it was conscious of draining the cup of indignity to the last dregs. My heart went out to it in its almost human agony. Had any animal ever before been in such a shameful position as this harmless, inoffensive ape, crouching there on all fours, like a slave beneath the foot of a Roman Emperor? Had there ever before been such an instance of all-conquering mental prowess as Stringer's victory over this two hundred and fifty pound personification of muscular cruelty?
Gran'pa and I and the Menagerie Man stood there spell-bound and breathless, whilst Stringer slowly stroked the huge head and pulled at the little, furry ears.
"Be careful!" whispered Gran'pa.
But the warning came a second too late. With amazing swiftness the brute had suddenly shot out its long, hairy arm, gripped Stringer round the waist and tugged him to the bars of the cage.
As he struck them we heard the breath driven from his body, as if he had been hit a terrific blow below the belt, and the ape gave a hideous cry of triumph—long and deep, like the rolling of a drum.
We flung ourselves on the encircling arm, tearing at it and hammering it with clenched fists, but it was like trying to remove an iron band. The muscles were as hard as stone and I felt them quivering as they contracted more and more closely.
"Quick, George! Get that crowbar!" cried Gran'pa.