He flung a small piece of half-rotten meat into the cage. Then he shut the door and locked it and went to the inn, where he sat and drank and caroused till early morning.
3
The lion did not touch the putrid meat. With his head on his paws, he lay staring at the little paraffin-lamp that hung in the tent and flickered feebly. Suddenly, he heard a sound and raised his head and looked about him:
“Can’t I have peace even at night?” he said.
“It’s only I,” replied a squeaky little voice. “I have been locked in by accident. I want to get out! I want to get out! My mistress will die of fright for me.”
It was a tiny little dog, with a collar and bells round his neck and an embroidered rug on his back. He tripped to and fro, whined and cried and scratched at the door, but no one heard him. All was silent in the market-place outside.
“Well, I never!” said the lion. “You’re the dog: I can see that. Gracious me, what a sight they’ve made of you!”
“I want to get out! I want to get out!” whined the dog.
The lion laid his head on his paws again and looked at the dog:
“What’s the use of whimpering like that?” he asked. “No one’s hurting you. I couldn’t eat you if I wanted to.... The iron bars are strong, believe me. I used to shake them at first. I have to travel in my cage from place to place and let people look at me for money, submit to their scorn and teasing and roar when I am told to, so that they may shudder and yet feel quite safe from my teeth.”