Well, it was here that I heard the story. Bonavita, it appears, was standing on the bridge one morning when there arose a fearful racket in the runway, and, looking in, he saw the quagga tearing along toward him. He concluded that some one had unfastened the door, and was just preparing to check the animal, when around the curve came Rajah in full pursuit. Bonavita stepped back, drew his revolver, and, as the tiger rushed past, fired a blank cartridge, thinking thus to divert him from the quagga. But Rajah paid not the slightest heed, and in long bounds came out into the arena hard after the terrified quadruped, which was galloping now with the speed of despair. A keeper who was sweeping clambered up the iron sides and anxiously watched the race from the top. Bonavita, powerless to interfere, watched from the bridge.
THE TIGER "RAJAH" KICKED BY THE QUAGGA.
Of all races ever run in a circus this was the most remarkable. It was a race for life, as the quagga knew and the tiger intended. Five times they circled the arena, Rajah gaining always, but never enough for a spring. In the sixth turn, however, he judged the distance right, and straightway a black-and-yellow body shot through the air in true aim at the prey. Whereupon the quagga did the only thing a quagga could do—let out both hind legs in one straight, tremendous kick; and they do say that a quagga can kick the eyes out of a fly. At any rate, in this case a pair of nervous little heels caught the descending tiger squarely under the lower jaw, and put him to sleep like a nice little lullaby. And that was the end of it. The quagga trotted back to its cage, Bonavita put up his revolver, the frightened sweeper climbed down from the bars, and Rajah was hauled back ignominiously to his den.
Here we have three instances showing the extreme importance of little things in a menagerie. A keeper opens door No. 13 instead of door No. 14, and is straightway killed. A screw is loose in a bolt fastening, and, presto! a tiger is at large. A watcher at a peep-hole looks away for a moment, and a life goes into jeopardy. It is always so; and I will let Mr. Bostock tell how a little thing gave Rajah his first longing to kill.
"It was several years ago," said he, "when I was running a wagon show in England. I remember we were about a mile and a half out of a certain town when this thing happened. For some reason Rajah had been transferred to a bear-wagon, and we ought to have examined it more carefully, for bears are the worst fellows in the world to damage a cage by ripping up the timbers; it seems as if nothing can resist their claws and teeth. And this particular cage was in such bad shape that Rajah managed to get out of it. I knew something must be wrong when I saw the big elephant-wagon that headed the procession go tearing away with its six horses on a dead run under the driver's lash. No wonder the driver was scared, for he had turned his head and seen the two draft-horses that followed him down on the ground, with Rajah tearing at one of them, and the other one dead.
"It wasn't a pretty sight when we got there, and it wasn't an easy job, either, capturing Rajah. I don't know what we should have done if it hadn't been for a long-haired fellow in the show called 'Mustang Ned,' who came up with a coil of rope and lassoed the tiger. Then we tangled him up in netting, and finally got him into one of the shifting-cages. But after that he was never the same tiger. You wouldn't think there was a time when Rajah used to ride around the tent on an elephant's back, with only a little black boy to guard him!"
"What, outside the iron ring?"
"Yes, sir, right among the women and children. He did that twice a day for over a year. Might be doing it yet if the black boy hadn't been so careful of his white trousers."