"UNA AND THE LION"
"YOUR being so quick-witted saved him, sir; she'd have gored him
to death—or, at any rate, injured him seriously, but for you!"
The speaker was Moses Lee, who had left his horse's head and run
forward to the assistance of the boys when he had realised the peril
of their position. It had taken the cow barely a minute to free her
head from Tom's coat, but by that time the gipsy had been at hand,
and by cracking his whip had driven her on. Now, cow, sheep-dogs,
and drovers were all once more out of sight, and Moses was addressing
Tom, who had picked a hazel-stick and was trying to catch Tim
in order to chastise him, whilst Peter, who had risen to his feet,
was standing, white, trembling, and bewildered, beside the hedge
from which he had fallen. Bounce crouched close beside him, conscious
that he was in disgrace.
"It's no good, sir," Moses continued, as Tim, having allowed his
master to come close to him, tucked his tail between his legs and
slunk guiltily away; "he's not going to let you catch him—not he!
Look at his manner. He knows he's done wrong and has offended you.
Poor little beast! He was no more to blame than the other dog. I saw
how it was—what with the cow bellowing, and the sheep-dogs barking,
and the drovers shouting they both lost their heads for once in a
way."
"I hope it will be only for once in a way," Tom said, with a menacing
gesture at Tim, who, at some dozen yards distance, had paused and was
looking back at him. "Yes, that's right, Peter, put Bounce on the
leash again. You aren't hurt, are you?"
"Oh, no!" Peter answered. "It was nothing of a fall, really."
"Thank goodness the cow didn't touch you!" cried Tom, fervently.
"It was a near shave she didn't though."
"A very near shave," agreed the gipsy, seriously.
"Please tell me exactly what happened," said Peter, turning his
sightless eyes upon Moses.
The man explained, again praising Tom for his quick-wittedness,
by which he had been greatly struck.
When he had finished his tale Peter exclaimed, "Oh, Tom, how can
I thank you? Really, then, you saved me from being gored by the cow!
Oh, how brave you are!"
"Oh, nonsense, nonsense!" said Tom, hastily. "Why, Peter, what's the
matter. Don't look so shocked. It's all over—the danger, I mean. Why,
you're shaking like a leaf. Don't be so silly. We'd better go on.
Where's my coat?"
"Here, sir," replied the gipsy, picking it up from the ground; "but I
don't think you can wear it—it's torn right through the back where
the cow's horn went through it."
"Never mind. I'll carry it, if I can't wear it. Fortunately, it's an
old one, so if it can't be mended there's not much harm done. Where's
that wicked Tim? Oh, gone on to your caravan, I see, and Zingra's got
hold of him! Are you going to stop at Hatwell Green?"
"Yes, sir; we've come back for the Fair."
"Oh, then, I shall see you again! Come along, Peter. I suppose
there's no chance of that cow coming back?"
"Not in the least, I should say, sir," the gipsy answered. "The
drovers told me she gave them the slip at the cross-roads, but depend
upon it they'll take good care she doesn't do that again."
Both boys looked relieved on hearing this. They stopped at the
caravan to exchange greetings with Mrs. Lee and Zingra, but Tom
hurried Peter on when the gipsy woman, who had been at the back of
the caravan, and consequently had not witnessed the scene with the
cow, began to ask questions about the torn coat he was carrying.
"You're coming to tea with Aunt Harriet and me, aren't you?" asked
Peter, when, out of sight of the caravan, Tom permitted him to
slacken speed.
"I was," Tom answered. "Miss Perry asked me, as you know, and Father
said I might, but I can't now—I must go straight home."
"Oh, why?"
"I can't have tea with your aunt wearing no coat."
"Oh, but I'll lend you one of mine! You mustn't go home! You won't
object to wear one of my coats, will you? No? Oh, then, that's all
right. Is Tim following us?"
"Yes—little beast!"
"Do forgive him now, Tom! Call him up to you, and make friends with
him."
Tom laughed and obeyed. He assured Tim he wouldn't hurt him,
whereupon the little dog bounded up to him, and was petted and
forgiven. After that Bounce was forgiven, too.
Peter would have lent Tom the very best coat he possessed, but Tom
declined it, and insisted on borrowing an old one, in which, he
declared, he would be far more comfortable. It fitted him very well,
for he and the blind boy were much of a size, so that Miss Perry did
not notice it was her nephew's till Peter drew her attention to it,
and explained what had happened. She said little then, but her look
was eloquent of the deepest gratitude as it rested on her young
visitor, and when, a short while after tea, Mr. Burford called for
his son, she drew him apart from the boys and talked to him earnestly
for a long while.
"What was Miss Perry saying to you, Father?" Tom inquired, with his
customary curiosity as, later, he and Mr. Burford walked home
together. "Was it about our adventure this afternoon?"
Mr. Burford assented. "She wishes to give you a new coat,"
he replied, smiling. "I said 'No' at first, but my refusal seemed to
hurt her, so I felt obliged to say 'Yes.' She considers you behaved
very pluckily this afternoon, Tom, and I agree with her. I am pleased
my boy showed true grit—kept his head and did not run away."
"I never thought of running away," Tom answered, colouring; "but, oh,
I was awfully, awfully frightened! Peter is so helpless in his
blindness, you know! It was horrible to see the cow make for him!
I hadn't time to say even a little prayer, but it was in my heart,
I think, and I just tore off my coat—and, oh, wasn't I thankful
I made such a good shot and threw it right over the cow's head! Then
Moses Lee came up with his whip and drove the cow on. Oh, dear me,
how stupid I've been! I forgot to speak to the gipsies about little
Grace Lee!"
"Who is little Grace Lee?" inquired Mr. Burford.
Tom explained, telling all he knew concerning the child and the
Sordellos. "And it crossed my mind that she might be related to Moses
Lee," he said in conclusion; "anyway, there'd be no harm in asking
him; I shall be sure to see him again."
"You say you heard the woman—this Mrs. Sordello—strike the little
girl, and use very bad language?" said Mr. Burford, interested and
concerned.
"Yes, Father, I did. She called her 'a white-faced little coward,'
and swore at her dreadfully; then she struck her—any one outside the
caravan could have heard, but no one was there except me."
"What had the little girl done to anger Mrs. Sordello? You have not
found out that?"
"No, Father; that is, Max Sordello said she had disobeyed and defied
his wife, but I believe he was telling lies!"
Mr. Burford looked doubtful. "You cannot prove that," he said. "If he
spoke the truth, the child deserved punishment, I dare say, though
not such harsh treatment as she received—nothing would justify that.
If a policeman had been in your position he would no doubt have
interfered and summoned the woman for using bad language, but if you
told a policeman all you've told me you couldn't prove it, and—well,
in short, you can't do anything in the matter, my boy."
"It's dreadful to think such a little girl should be treated so
badly!" Tom cried in indignant accents, "a little girl no bigger than
our Nellie! I am sure Max Sordello and his wife are cruel to her!
I believe they are wicked people! Oh, Father, do wait a minute and
see what is being pasted on that hoarding; I believe it's a bill
about the menagerie!"
They had reached a large hoarding surrounding an unfinished building,
upon which a bill-sticker was busily at work. He was standing on a
short ladder, and glanced down with a smile as Tom and Mr. Burford
stopped to watch him, revealing a good-natured, rubicund face.
"This is something in your line, I guess, young gentleman,"
he remarked, addressing Tom, whilst he indicated a flaring poster
on which was represented a lion jumping through a hoop. "All boys
love a wild-beast show, I know," he continued, "and you may take
my word for it that 'Dumbell's World-famed Menagerie' is well worth
seeing."
"You have seen it, then, I suppose?" said Mr. Burford.
The bill-sticker nodded assent. "At Birmingham last year,"
he replied; "this is the first time it's been here. It's the best
show of wild animals on tour. The chief attraction, of course, is the
performing lions—as gentle as lambs, or—" nodding his head meaningly—
"whipped curs; their trainer, Max Sordello, has them well in hand,
anyway. They say he trains them by kindness, but who's to know, eh?"
He pasted on another bill, one representing a lion with a little girl
clad in a scarlet frock and wearing a wreath of flowers standing
beside him, her arms around his neck, her face hidden in his tawny
mane, and then surveyed it gravely. "I shouldn't like my little gell
to do that," he said, "no, not for a thousand pounds! See what's
printed under that bill? 'Una and the lion.'"
"Is the little girl really called Una?" asked Tom eagerly.
"Maybe, sir," answered the bill-sticker, "I don't know. She's Max
Sordello's child, I'm given to understand; she's been appearing
in public with the lions for months, but never yet with Hero—that
lion there; they say he's forest-bred. She's to make her first
appearance with him next week, on Monday at the Fair, so we shall all
have an opportunity of seeing her."
Tom was staring hard at the picture of the little girl in the scarlet
frock; there was a strong suspicion in his mind that this "Una,"
who was considered to be the lion-trainer's child, was actually Grace
Lee, and when, a few minutes later, he moved on with his father,
he told him what he thought.
[Illustration: "A dwarf!" Tom exclaimed, and stopped to look at him.]
"Yes, very likely you're right," agreed Mr. Burford; "I think so
myself."
"What a plucky little thing she must be!" cried Tom, excitedly.
"You'll let me go and see her performance with the lions on Monday,
won't you, Father?"
"I hardly know," Mr. Burford answered hesitatingly; "I don't
altogether approve of that sort of entertainment, because I don't
believe that lions can be trained by kindness, especially forest-bred
animals. And it's terrible to think that a child's life should be
risked to amuse the public and for gain; it never ought to be
allowed. I begin to see, Tom, that those Sordellos may have been
prompted by a selfish motive when they adopted that little orphan—
no doubt she adds considerably to the lion-trainer's earnings."
"Yes, of course," Tom agreed. His face had become very thoughtful and
grave. "Poor little girl," he said, pityingly; "I wonder if she is
afraid of the lions? I know Nellie would be in her place."
Then the conversation turned upon Nellie, and in talking of his
dearly loved sister Tom forgot every one else for the time. Later his
thoughts reverted to Grace Lee, and he went to bed with the
determination to visit Hatwell Green on the morrow, and tell the
gipsies all about her.
"One thing is quite certain," he said to himself, "and that is that
she's very miserable. I never saw any little girl with such an
unhappy face before. And she seemed so frightened! I wonder what she
was afraid of? I shall try to find out!"