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SHOWMAN
late one closing night when one of the cats got nasty and wouldn't get out of the storage-cage and into the little portable cage we used to transfer the livestock into the circus-wagon which was backed up to the stage-door. Ordinarily we lassoed the lion from outside and dragged him in by the neck. But this time the biggest brute, the only one that ever showed any spirit, backed off into a far corner of the storage-cage and refused to budge. It was darkish back there. The theater was empty of everybody but us and the lions. I must say that animal looked pretty tough as he sat there, braced against the rope, opening his mouth and swearing cat-fashion. Darling had stepped round the corner to the saloon every time we got another lion stowed, and by the time we struck this last one he was drunk as a hoot-owl and just about as, useless. But the German boy, who wanted to get home to bed, I guess, took charge of the situation. He walked right into the cage— it wasn't much over four feet high, so he had to stoop way over— marched up to the lion and whacked him across the nose with a broom-handle. All that got him was a short and highly nasty roar. More broomhandle, till he broke it over the lion's back, but no action. Finally, he lost patience and hauled off and socked the lion right in the jaw. "Schweinhund!" he said, and reached over and got a grip on his mane and walked him across the cage like a sheep-killing dog. Then, as he ducked through the door into the portable cage, the kid gave him a kick behind for good
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