“Remember Captain Roberts and his great Danes. They weren’t pure-breds, though. He must have had a dozen of them—toughest bunch of brutes I ever saw. He boarded them here twice. You couldn’t go among them without a club in your hand. I had a Mexican lad laid up by them. He was a tough one, too. But they got him down and nearly ate him. The doctors took over forty stitches in him and shot him full of that Pasteur dope for hydrophobia. And he always will limp with his right leg from what the dogs did to him. I tell you, they were the limit. And yet, every time the curtain went up, Captain Roberts brought the house down with the first stunt. Those dogs just flocked all over him, loving him to death, from the looks of it. And were they loving him? They hated him. I’ve seen him, right here in the cage at Cedarwild, wade into them with a club and whale the stuffing impartially out of all of them. Sure, they loved him not. Just a bit of the same old aniseed was what he used. He’d soak small pieces of meat in aniseed oil and stick them in his pockets. But that stunt would only work with a bunch of giant dogs like his. It was their size that got it across. Had they been a lot of ordinary dogs it would have looked silly. And, besides, they didn’t do their regular tricks for aniseed. They did it for Captain Roberts’s club. He was a tough bird himself.”
“He used to say that the art of training animals was the art of inspiring them with fear. One of his assistants told me a nasty one about him afterwards. They had an off month in Los Angeles, and Captain Roberts got it into his head he was going to make a dog balance a silver dollar on the neck of a champagne bottle. Now just think that over and try to see yourself loving a dog into doing it. The assistant said he wore out about as many sticks as dogs, and that he wore out half a dozen dogs. He used to get them from the public pound at two and a half apiece, and every time one died he had another ready and waiting. And he succeeded with the seventh dog. I’m telling you, it learned to balance a dollar on the neck of a bottle. And it died from the effects of the learning within a week after he put it on the stage. Abscesses in the lungs, from the stick.”
“There was an Englishman came over when I was a youngster. He had ponies, monkeys, and dogs. He bit the monkey’s ears, so that, on the stage, all he had to do was to make a move as if he was going to bite and they’d quit their fooling and be good. He had a big chimpanzee that was a winner. It could turn four somersaults as fast as you could count on the back of a galloping pony, and he used to have to give it a real licking about twice a week. And sometimes the lickings were too stiff, and the monkey’d get sick and have to lay off. But the owner solved the problem. He got to giving him a little licking, a mere taste of the stick, regular, just before the turn came on. And that did it in his case, though with some other case the monkey most likely would have got sullen and not acted at all.”
It was on that day that Harris Collins sold a valuable bit of information to a lion man who needed it. It was off time for him, and his three lions were boarding at Cedarwild. Their turn was an exciting and even terrifying one, when viewed from the audience; for, jumping about and roaring, they were made to appear as if about to destroy the slender little lady who performed with them and seemed to hold them in subjection only by her indomitable courage and a small riding-switch in her hand.
“The trouble is they’re getting too used to it,” the man complained. “Isadora can’t prod them up any more. They just won’t make a showing.”
“I know them,” Collins nodded. “They’re pretty old now, and they’re spirit-broken besides. Take old Sark there. He’s had so many blank cartridges fired into his ears that he’s stone deaf. And Selim—he lost his heart with his teeth. A Portuguese fellow who was handling him for the Barnum and Bailey show did that for him. You’ve heard?”
“I’ve often wondered,” the man shook his head. “It must have been a smash.”
“It was. The Portuguese did it with an iron bar. Selim was sulky and took a swipe at him with his paw, and he whopped it to him full in the mouth just as he opened it to let out a roar. He told me about it himself. Said Selim’s teeth rattled on the floor like dominoes. But he shouldn’t have done it. It was destroying valuable property. Anyway, they fired him for it.”
“Well, all three of them ain’t worth much to me now,” said their owner. “They won’t play up to Isadora in that roaring and rampaging at the end. It really made the turn. It was our finale, and we always got a great hand for it. Say, what am I going to do about it anyway? Ditch it? Or get some young lions?”
“Isadora would be safer with the old ones,” Collins said.