CHAPTER I_Son of Power

E-text prepared by Al Haines

SON OF POWER

WILL LEVINGTON COMFORT and ZAMIN KI DOST

Garden City New York

Doubleday, Page & Company

1920

Doubleday, Page & Company

into Foreign Languages, Including the Scandinavian

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Zamin Ki Dost is a title given to one who lived in India many

years--from the time when she was little more than a child. The tale

of tales would be her own story. Her name is

WILLIMINA L. ARMSTRONG

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I THE GOOD GREY NERVE

II SON OF POWER

III SON OF POWER (_Continued_)

IV THE MONKEY GLEN

V THE MONKEY GLEN (_Continued_)

VI JUNGLE LAUGHTER

VII THE HUNTING CHEETAH

VIII THE MONSTER KABULI

IX THE MONSTER KABULI (_Continued_)

X HAND-OF-A-GOD

XI ELEPHANT CONCERNS

XII BLUE BEAST

XIII NEELA DEO, KING OF ALL ELEPHANTS

XIV NEELA DEO, KING OF ALL ELEPHANTS (_Continued_)

XV THE LAIR

XVI FEVER BIRDS

SON OF POWER

CHAPTER I

_The Good Grey Nerve_

His name was Sanford Hantee, but you will hear that only occasionally,

for the boys of the back streets called him Skag, which "got" him

somewhere at once. That was in Chicago. He was eleven years old, when

he wandered quite alone to Lincoln Park Zoo, and the madness took him.

A silent madness. It flooded over him like a river. If any one had

noticed, it would have appeared that Skag's eyes changed. Always he

quite contained himself, but his lips stirred to speech even less after

that. He didn't pretend to go to school the next day; in fact, the

spell wasn't broken until nearly a week afterward, when the keeper of

the Monkey House pointed Skag out to a policeman, saying the boy had

been on the grounds the full seven open hours for four straight days

that he knew of.

Skag wasn't a liar. He had never "skipped" school before, but the Zoo

had him utterly. He was powerless against himself. Some bigger force,

represented by a truant officer, was necessary to keep him away from

those cages. His father got down to business and gave him a

beating--much against that good man's heart. (Skag's father was a

Northern European who kept a fruit-store down on Waspen street--a

mildly-flavoured man and rotund. His mother was a Mediterranean woman,

who loved and clung.)

But Skag went back to the Zoo. For three days more he went, remained

from opening to closing time. He seemed to fall into deep

absorptions--before tigers and monkeys especially. He didn't hear what

went on around him. He did not appear to miss his lunch. You had to

touch his shoulder to get his attention. The truant officer did this.

It all led dismally to the Reform School from which Skag ran away.

He was gone three weeks and wouldn't have come back then, except his

heart hurt about his mother. He felt the truth--that she was slowly

dying without him. After that for awhile he kept away from the

animals, because his mother loved and clung and cried, when he grew

silently cold with revolt against a life not at all for him, or hot

with hatred against the Reform School. Those were ragged months in

which a less rubbery spirit might have been maimed, but the mother died

before that actually happened. Skag was free--free the same night.

The father's real relation to him had ended with the beating. It was

too bad, for there might have been a decent memory to build on. The

fruit-dealer, however, had been badly frightened by the truant-officer

(in the uniform of a patrolman), and he was just civilised enough to be

a little ashamed that his boy could so far forget the world and all

refined and mild-flavoured things, as to stare through bars at animals

for seven hours a day. In the process of that beating, hell had opened

for Skag. It was associated with the raw smell of blood and a thin red

steam, a little hotter than blood-heat. It always came when he

remembered his father. . . . But his mother meant lilacs. The top

drawer of her dresser had been faintly magic of her. The smell came

when he remembered her. It was like the first rains in the Lake

Country.

But that was all put back. Skag was out in the world now, making it

exactly to suit himself. He was in charge of himself in many ways. A

glass of water and a sandwich would do for a long time, if

necessary. . . . The West pulled him. Awhile in the mountains, he

lived with a prospector; there was a period in the desert when he came

to know lizards; then there were years of the circus, when he was out

with the Cloud Brothers, animal men of the commercial type. Ten queer,

hard years for the boy--as hard almost as for the animals.

Back in Chicago the caged creatures had been kept better--as well as

beasts belonging to the outdoors could be imprisoned, but the Cloud

Brothers didn't have fine senses like their charges. They tried to

make wild animals live in a place ventilated for men. There was a bad

death-percentage and none of the big cats were in show form, until the

Clouds began to take Skag's word for the main thing wrong. It wasn't

the hard life, nor the coops, nor the travel, but the steady day in and

day out lack of fresh air. Skag knew what the animals suffered,

because it all but murdered him on hot nights. Of course, there are

tainted-flesh things like hyenas that live best on foul air, foul

everything, but "white" animals of jungle and forest are high and

cleanly beasts. When well and in their prime, even their coats are

incapable of most kinds of dirt, because of a natural oily gloss.

At nineteen, Skag was in charge of the packing, moving and feeding of

all the big cats, including pumas, panthers, leopards. He was in and

out of the cages possibly more than was necessary. He learned that

there are two ways to manage a wild animal--the "rough-neck" way with a

club, and the fancy way with your own equilibrium; all of which comes

in more to the point later.

He was interested at the time, but not really acquainted with the

camels and elephants. He often chatted with Prussak, the Arab, who

loathed camels to the shallow depths of his soul, but got as much out

of them as most men could. Skag dreamed of a better way still, even

with camels. Often on train-trips, at first, he talked with old Alec

Binz, whose characteristic task was to chain and unchain the hind leg

of the old "gunmetal" elephant, Phedra, who bossed her sire and the

little Cloud herd, as much with the flap of an ear as anything

else. . . .

No, old Alec must not be forgotten, nor his sandalwood chest with its

little rose-jar in the corner, making everything smell so strangely

sweet that it hurt. A girl of India had given Alec the jar twenty

years before. The spirit of a real rose-jar never dies; and something

of the girl's spirit was around it, too, as Alec talked softly. All

this was unreservedly good to Skag--thrilling as certain few books and

the top drawer that had been his mother's. . . . But something way

back of that, utterly his own deep heart-business, was connected with

the rose-jar. It was breathless like opening a telegram--its first

scent after days or weeks. If you find any meaning to the way Skag

expressed it, you are welcome:

"It makes you think of things you don't know--"

"But you will," Alec had once answered.

The more you knew, the more you favoured that old man of the circus

company,--little gold ring in his ear and such tales of India!

It was Alec who led Skag into the fancy way of dealing with animals,

but of course the boy was peculiar, inasmuch as he believed it all at

once. Skag never ceased to think of it until it was his; he actually

put it into practice. Alec might have told a dozen American trainers

and have gotten no more than a yawp for his pains. This is one of the

things Alec said:

"If you can get on top of the menagerie in your own insides,

Skagee--the tigers and apes, the serpents and monkeys, in your own

insides--you'll never get in bad with the Cloud Brothers wild animal

show."

There wasn't a day or night for years that Skag didn't think of that

saying. It was his secret theme. So far as he could see, it worked

out. Of course, he found out many things for himself--one of which was

that there is a smell about a man who is afraid, that the animals get

it and become afraid, too. Alec agreed to this, but added that there

is a smell about most men, when they are not afraid.

For hours they talked together about India--tiger hunts and the big

Grass Jungle country in the Bund el Khand, until Skag couldn't wait any

longer. He had to go to India. He told Alec, who wanted to go along,

but couldn't leave old Phedra.

"I've been with her too long," he said. "She's delicate, Skagee. I'm

young, but she couldn't stand it for me to go. Times are hard for her

on the road, and the little herd needs her as she needs me. . . ."

Skag understood that. In fact, he loved it well. It belonged to his

world--to be straight with the animals. Gradually as the distance

increased between them, the memory of old Alec began to smell as sweet

as the sandal-wood chest in Skag's nostrils--the chest and the rose-jar

that never could die and the old friend became one identity. . . .

India didn't excite Skag, who was twenty-five by this time. In fact,

some aspects of India were more natural to him than his own country.

Many people did a lot of walking and they lived while they walked,

instead of pushing forward in a tension to get somewhere. Skag

approved emphatically of the Now. The present moving point was the

best he had at any given time. He thought a man should forget himself

in the Now like the animals.

Besides they didn't regulate dress in India; in fact, they dressed in

so many different ways that a man could wear what he pleased without

being stared at. Skag hated to be stared at above all things. You are

beginning to get a picture of him now--unobtrusive, silent, strong in

understanding, swift, actually in pain as the point of many eyes,

altogether interested in his own unheard-of things.

Alec told him how to reach the jungle of all jungles, ever old, ever

new, ever innocent on the outside, ever deadly within--the Grass Jungle

country around Hattah and Bigawar--the Bund el Khand. The Cloud

Brothers had paid him well for his years; there was still script in his

clothes for travel, but Skag had a queer relation to money, only using

it when the law required. Not a tight-wad, far from that, though he

preferred to work for a meal than pay for it; much preferred to walk or

ride than to purchase other people's energy, having much of his own.

He came at last to a village called Butthighur, near Makrai, north of

the Mahadeo Mountains in the Central Provinces. On the first day, on

the main road near the rest-house, there passed him on the street, a

slim, slightly-stooped and spectacled young white man. The face under

the huge cork helmet, Skag looked at twice, not knowing why altogether;

then he followed leisurely to a bungalow, walked up the path to the

steps and knocked. The stranger himself answered, before the servant

could come. He looked Skag over, through spectacles that made his eyes

appear insane, at times, and sometimes merely absurd. Finally he

questioned with soft cheer:

"And what sort of a highbinder are you?"

Skag answered that he was an American, acquainted with wild animals in

captivity, and that he had come to this place to know wild animals in

the open.

"But why to me?" the white man asked.

"It seemed well. I have looked into many faces without asking anyone.

There is no chance of working for the native people here. They are too

many, and too poor."

"You do not talk like an American--"

"I do not like to talk."

The white man was puzzled by Skag's careful and exact statements and

remarked presently:

"An American asking for work would say that he knew about everything,

instead of just animals in captivity."

"I have not asked for work before. I can do without it. I like it

here near the forests."

"You mean the jungles--"

"I thought jungles were wet."

"In the wet season."

"Thank you--"

The slim one suddenly laughed aloud though not off-key:

"But I haven't any wild animals in captivity for you--"

Skag did not mind the mirth. He appreciated the smell of the house.

It was like a hot earthen tea-pot that had been well-used.

"I will come again?" he asked tentatively.

"Just do that--at the rest-house. I drop in there after dinner--about

nine."

That afternoon Skag went into the edge of the jungle. It was a breath

of promised land to him. He was almost frightened with the joy of

it--the deep leaf-etched shadows, the separate, almost reverent

bird-notes; all spaciousness and age and dignity; leaves strange, dry

paths, scents new to his nostrils, but having to do with joys and fears

and restlessness his brain didn't know. Skag was glad deep. He took

off his boots and then strode in deeper and deeper past the maze of

paths. He stayed there until the yellow light was out of the sky. At

the clearing again, he laughed--looked down at the turf and laughed.

He had come out to the paths again at the exact point of his entry.

This was his first deep breath of the jungle--something his soul had

been waiting for.

At dinner in the village, Skag inquired about the white man. The

native was serving him a curry with drift-white rice on plantain

leaves. After that there was a sweetmeat made of curds of cream and

honey, with the flavour and perfume of some altogether delectable

flower. In good time the native replied that the white man's name was

Cadman: that he was an American traveller and writer and artist, said

to be almost illustrious; that he had been out recently with a party of

English sportsmen, but found tiger-hunting dull after his many wars and

adventures. Also, it was said, that Cadman Sahib had the

coldest-blooded courage a man ever took into the jungle, almost like a

_bhakti yogin_ who had altogether conquered fear. Skag bowed in

satisfaction. Had he not looked twice at the face under the

helmet--and followed without words?

"How far do they go into the jungle for tigers?" he asked.

"An hour's journey, or a day, as it happens. Tigers are everywhere in

season."

"Within an hour's walk?" Skag asked quietly. The other repeated his

words in a voice that made Skag think of a grey old man, instead of the

fat brown one before him.

"Within an hour's walk? Ha, Ji! They come to the edge of the village

and slay the goats for food--and the sound cattle--and the children!"

Skag laughed inwardly, thinking how good it had been in the deep

places. However, it was now plain that these native folk were afraid

of tigers--afraid as of a sickness. He walked out into the street.

Though dark, it was still hot, and the breeze brought the dry green of

the jungle to him and life was altogether quite right.

That night he met Cadman Sahib. They talked until dawn. Skag was

helpless before the other who made him tell all he knew, and much that

had been nicely forgotten. Sometimes in the midst of one story, the

great traveller would snap over a question about one Skag had already

told. Then before he was answered fully, he would say briefly:

"That's all right--go on!"

". . . Behold a phenomenon!" he said at last. "Here is one not a liar,

and smells have meanings for him, and he has come, beyond peradventure,

to travel with me to the Monkey Forest and the Coldwater Ruins!"

It had been an altogether wonderful night for Skag. Talking made him

very tired, as if part of him had gone forth; as if, having spoken, he

would be called upon to make good in deeds. But he had not done all

the talking and Cadman Sahib was no less before his eyes in the morning

light--which is much to say for any man.

These two white men set out alone, facing one of the most dangerous of

all known jungles. The few natives who understood, bade them good-bye

for this earth.

Many stories about Cadman had come to Skag in the three or four days of

preparation--altogether astonishing adventures of his quest for death,

but there was no record of Cadman's choosing a friend, as he had done

for this expedition. Skag never ceased to marvel at the sudden

softenings, so singularly attractive, in Cadman's look when he really

began to talk. Sometimes it was like a sudden drop into summer after

protracted frost, and the lines of the thin weathered face revealed the

whole secret of yearning, something altogether chaste. And that was

only the beginning. It was all unexpected; that was the charm of the

whole relation. Skag found that Cadman had a real love for India; that

he saw things from a nature full of delicate inner surfaces; that his

whole difficulty was an inability to express himself unless he found

just the receiving-end to suit. Indian affairs, town and field, an

infinite variety, Cadman discussed penetratingly, but as one who looked

on from the outside.

"She is like my old Zoo book to me," he said, speaking of India their

first night out. "A bit of a lad, I used to sit in my room with the

great book opened out on a marble table that was cold the year round.

There were many pictures. Many, many pictures of all beasts--wood-cuts

and copies of paintings and ink-sketchings--ante-camera days, you know.

All those pictures are still here--"

Cadman blew a thin diffusion of smoke from his lungs, and touched the

third button down from the throat of his grey-green shirt.

"One above all," he added. "It was the frontispiece. All the story of

creation on one page. Man, beautiful Man in the centre, all the

tree-animals on branches around him, the deeps drained off at his feet,

many monsters visible or intimated, the air alive with wings--finches

up to condors. That picture sank deep, Skag, so deep that in

absent-minded moments I half expected to find India like that--"

There were no better hours of life, than these when Cadman Sahib let

himself speak.

"I haven't found the animals and birds and monsters all packed on one

page," he added, "but highlights here and there in India, so that I

always come back. I have often caught myself asking what the pull is

about, you know, as I catch myself taking ship for Bombay again. Oh, I

say, my son, and you never got over to the lotus lakes?"

"Not yet," Skag said softly.

"There's a night wind there and a tree--I could find it again. I've

lain on peacock feathers on a margin there--unwilling to sleep lest I

miss the perfume from over the pools. . . . And the roses of Kashmir,

where men of one family must serve forty generations before they get

the secrets; where they press out a ton of petals for a pound of

essential oil! And that's where the big mountains stand by--High

Himalaya herself--incredible colours and vistas--get it for yourself,

son."

It was always the elusive thing that Cadman didn't say, that left

Skag's mind free to build his own pictures. Meanwhile Cadman as a

companion was showing up flawlessly day by day.

At the end of a long march, after many days out, they smelled the night

cooking-fires from a village. A moment later they passed tiger tracks,

and the print of native feet.

The twilight was thick between them as they hastened on. Cadman Sahib

stepped back suddenly, lifting his hand to grasp the other, but not

quite soon enough. That instant Skag was flicked out of sight, taken

into the folds of mother-earth and covered--the bleat of a kid

presently identifying the whole mystery.

Skag fell about twelve feet into the black earth coolness. He was

unhurt, and knew roughly what had happened before he landed. His rush

of thoughts: shame for his own carelessness, gladness that Cadman Sahib

was safe above, the meaning of the kid's cry and the tracks they had

seen; this rush was broken by another deluge of earth that all but

drowned the laugh of Cadman. Skag had jerked back against the wall of

earth to avoid being struck by the body of his companion who coughed

and laughed again faintly, for his wind was very low.

"You couldn't ask more of a friend than that, son. I couldn't get you

up to me, so I came down with you--"

Of course, it was an accident. Cadman presently explained that he had

set down his dunnage and crept close on his knees to look into the pit

when the dry earth caved. Doubtless it was intended to do so, since

this was a native tiger-trap baited with live meat. But Cadman had not

considered fully in time. . . . Dust of the dry brown earth settled

upon them now; the grey twilight darkened swiftly. The chamber was

about nine by fifteen feet, hollowed wider at the bottom than the top,

and covered with a thin frame of bamboo poles, upon which was spread a

layer of leaves and sod. The kid had been tethered to escape the

stroke if possible.

"It's all night for us," Cadman remarked. "They won't look at the trap

until morning. My packs are above--rifle and blanket--"

"I have the camera," Skag chuckled.

Cadman's thin hand came out gropingly.

"The cigarettes are in the tea-pot," he said in a voice dulled with

pain.

"I have the pistol," Skag added dreamily. Something of the situation

had touched him with joy. If he spoke at such times, it was very dryly.

"Doubtless you have our bathing-suits," Cadman suggested.

"And my cigarette-case has--" Skag felt in the dark, "has

one--two--three--"

"Go on," the other said tensely.

"Three," said Skag.

"Let's smoke 'em now. They're calling me already."

Skag passed him the case, saying; "I'm not ready. I do not care just

now."

The other puffed dismally.

"I don't always quite get you, son," he said. "But it's all right when

I do--"

Skag mused over this. He was hungry and he put the thought away. He

was athirst and he put that thought away also. The wants came back,

but he dealt with them more firmly. The two men talked of appetites in

general, and Skag explained that he handled his, just as he had handled

the wild animals in the circus, being straight with them and gaining

their friendliness.

"Don't fight them," he said. "Get them on your side and they will pull

for you in a pinch."

"You talk like a Hindu holy man--"

"Do they talk like that?" Skag asked quickly. . . . "It was my old

friend with the circus--who taught me these things. He taught me to

make friends with my own wild animals. It is true that he was many

years in India. . . ."

"He was the one that had the ring in his left ear?"

"Right ear."

The other laughed. "It's such a novelty to find you are not a

liar--with all you know and have been through. I'll stop that nasty

business of testing you. Hear me, from now on, I'm done!"

Hours passed; it was after midnight. The waning moon was rising. They

could tell the light through the trees. Cadman had smoked again, but

Skag still expressed an unwillingness.

"It doesn't want to, now," he said.

"Oh, it doesn't--"

"I have persuaded it to think of other things. It is working for me."

Cadman swore softly, genially. "I never forget anything, son," he

whispered. "Never anything like that."

"Old Alec said I should never let a day pass without doing something I

didn't want to--or without something I wanted. He said it was better

than developing muscle."

"Some brand of calisthenics--that. And he was the old one with the

rose-jar?"

Skag's hand lifted toward the other and Cadman's met his.

There was a wet, meaty growl, indescribably low-pitched--but no chance

even to shout--only to huddle back together to the farthest corner.

The beast had stalked faultlessly and pounced, landing upon the thin

cross pieces of bamboo, but short of the bait. Down the twelve feet he

came with a tearing hiss of fright and rage. Something like a muffled

crash of pottery, it was, mixed with dull choking explosions. The air

of the pit seemed charged with furious power that whipped the leaves to

shreds.

"The pistol, Skag--"

They were free, so far, from the rending claws. The younger man's

brain was full of light. Cadman Sahib's voice had never been more calm.

Skag drew a match, not the gun. He scratched the match and held it

high in front. They saw the great cowering creature like a fallen pony

in size--but untellably more vivid in line--the chest not more than

seven feet from them, the head held far back, the near front paw lifted

against them as if to parry a blow.

Skag changed the match from his right hand to his left. When the flame

burned low, he tossed it on the ground, half way between them and the

tiger. There was a forward movement of the beast's spine--a little

lower and forward. The lifted paw curved in, but did not touch the

ground. The last light of the match, as it turned red, seemed bright

in the beast's bared mouth. In it all there was the dramatic reality

of a dream that questions not.

"He's badly frightened," Skag said.

No sound from Cadman Sahib.

"It's too big for him," Skag went on calmly. "He thinks we put over

the whole thing on him. It's too big for him to tackle. Wonder if

he's got a mate?"

One big green eye burned now in the pit--steady as a beacon and turned

to them, enfolding them. Cadman Sahib cleared his throat.

"All right to talk?" he asked huskily.

"Sure. It will help--"

He cleared his throat again and inquired in an enticing tone: "You

actually don't mean to use the pistol?"

"I'm not a crack-shot," Skag said queerly.

"You might pass it to me. I'm supposed to be--"

"It is bad light."

"And then again, you might not," Cadman laughed softly. "I've got you,

son--"

"I will do as you say," Skag said steadily.

Cadman hiccoughed. "The eye moved," he explained. "There--it did it

again. I got a feeling as if an elevator dropped a flight. What were

you saying?"

"That I am here to take orders."

"I'm taking orders to-night, son. I wouldn't risk your good opinion by

shooting your guest--"

"He is perfect--not more than four or five years--got his full range,

but not his weight."

Skag stopped abruptly, until the other nudged him.

"Go on--it's like a bench-show--"

"We called them Bengalis--but that is just the trade-name--"

"You intimated he might have a lady-friend--do they hunt in couples?"

The boy didn't answer that. "You've never been in a tiger's cage?" he

asked suddenly.

"I'm telling you not, so you'll excuse my apprehensions about our

lodging--in case Herself appears. The fact is, there isn't room--"

"She won't come near, if we keep up the voices--"

"It becomes instantly a bore to talk," Cadman answered.

Sometime passed before they spoke again. The tiger didn't seem to

settle any; from time to time, they heard the tense concussion, the

hissing escape of his snarl. The kid had either escaped or strangled

to death.

"Will he stand for it until morning?" Cadman asked abruptly.

"He may move a little to rest his legs."

"And won't he try for the top?"

"I think not. He has already measured that. He sees in the dark. He

knows there's no good in making a jump."

"Nothing to jump at--with us here?"

"We have put it over on him. You have helped greatly."

"How's all that?"

"You don't smell afraid--"

"Ah, thanks."

Long afterward Cadman's hand came over to Skag's brow and touched it

lightly.

"I was just wondering, son, if you sweat hot or cold."

There was a pause, before he added:

"You see, I want to get you, young man. You really like this sort of

night?"

"It is India," said Skag.

Every little while through the dragging hours, Cadman would laugh

softly; and if there had been silence for long, the warning snarl would

come back. The breath of it shook the air and the thresh of the tail

kept the dust astir in the pit.

"There is only one more thing I can think of," Cadman said at last.

The waning moon was now in meridian and blent with daylight. The beast

was still crouched against the wall.

"Yes?" said Skag.

"That you should walk over and stroke his head."

"Oh, no, he is cornered. He would fight."

"There's really a kind of law about all this--?"

"Very much a law."

After an interval Cadman breathed: "I like it. Oh, yes," he added

wearily, "I like it all."

It was soon after that they heard the voices of natives and a face,

looking grey in the dawn, peered down. Cadman spoke in a language the

native understood:

"Look in the tea-pot and toss down my cigarettes--"

At this instant the tiger protested a second time. The native vanished

with the squeak of a fat puppy that falls off a chair on its back. For

moments afterward, they heard him calling and telling others the tale

of all his born days. Three quarters of an hour elapsed before the

long pole, thick as a man's arm, was carefully lowered. Skag guided

the butt to the base of the pit, and fixed it there as far as possible

from the tiger. This was delicate. His every movement was maddeningly

deliberate, the danger, of course, being to put the tiger into a

fighting panic.

"Now you climb," Skag said.

"No--"

"It is better so. I am old at these things. He will not leap at you

while I am here--"

"You mean he might leap, as you start to shin up the pole--alone?"

"No, that will be the second time. It will not infuriate him--the

second one to climb."

"I'll gamble with you--who goes first."

"You said that you were taking orders," Skag said coldly.

"That's a fact. But this isn't to my relish, son--"

"We do not need more words."

Cadman Sahib had reached safety. The natives were around him, feeling

his arms and limbs, stuttering questions. He bade them be silent,

caught up his rifle and covered the tiger, while Skag made the tilted

pole, beckoning the rifle back.

"It's been a hard night for him," he said.

The two men stood together in the morning light. Cadman's face was

deeply shaded by the big helmet again, but his eyes bored into the

young one's as he offered his cigarette-case. Skag took one, lit it

carelessly. Cadman was watching his hands.

"You've got it, son," he said.

"Got what?"

"The good grey nerve. . . . Not a flicker in your hand. I wanted to

know. . . . Say, cheer up--"

Skag was looking toward the tiger trap.

"Ah, I see," said Cadman Sahib.

"The circus is a hard life," Skag said.

That was a kind of a feast day. . . . At noon the natives had the

tiger up in sunlight, caged in bamboo. Skag presently came into a

startling kind of joy to hear his friend make an offer to buy the

beast. Negotiations moved slowly, but the thing was done. That

afternoon the journey toward Coldwater Ruins was continued with eight

carriers, the tiger swung between them. Skag was mystified. What

could Cadman mean? What could he do with a tiger at the Ruins or in

the Monkey Forest? The natives apparently had not been told the

destination, but they must know soon. It was all strange. Skag liked

it better alone with his friend. Halt was called that afternoon, the

sun still in the sky. The two white men walked apart.

"You get the drift, my son?"

Skag shook his head.

"Of course, the natives won't like it; they won't understand. But

we're sure he isn't a man-eater--"

Skag's chest heaved.

"I never knew a more decent tiger--" Cadman went on. "Besides, he's a

friend of yours, and not too expensive--"

"You bought him to--"

"I bought him for you, son--a tribute to the nerviest white man I ever

stepped with--"

That evening a great whine went up from the bearers. It appears that

while some were cutting wood, others preparing supper and others

gathering dry grass for beds, the younger white man, who had made magic

with the tiger in the pit, suddenly failed in his powers. The natives

were sure it was not their fault that the cover had not been securely

fastened. The bearers repeated they were all at work and could find no

fault with themselves. They were used to dealing with white men who

did not permit bungling. Their wailing was very loud. . . . To lose

such a tiger was worth more than many natives, some white men would

say. . . . But Cadman Sahib was rich. He fumed but little; being of

all white men most miraculously compassionate. . . . Also it was true

the beast, though full grown, was not a man-eater. . . .

"And to-morrow we shall go on alone--it is much pleasanter," said Skag,

after all was still and they lay down together.