“As you can see, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “this animal is genuinely savage!  It is not like the tigers one sees in menageries, drugged and deprived of their natural weapons—­teeth and claws.  It comes direct from India, where its reputation as a man-eater is widespread.  I am not, however, intimidated—­its growls merely amuse me.”

Quaking all over, he approached the cage, and staring fixedly into the tiger’s face, made the prescribed passes.  In an instant, the whole attitude of the great cat changed.  Dropping on to its fore-legs, it rubbed its head against the bars and purred.  A low buzz of astonishment burst from the audience, and Kelson, now assured that the spell had worked, waved his disengaged hand, in the most gallant fashion, at the audience, and strutted into the cage.  He shook paws with the tiger, patted it on the back, sat down by its side, and, whilst pretending to be on the most familiar terms with it, took every precaution to avoid coming in too close contact with its teeth and claws.

The audience was charmed—­the men cheered, the ladies waved handkerchiefs, and the only disappointed persons present were a few belligerent and bloodthirsty boys, and a Suffragette, who severally, and for diverse reasons, would have relished the performances of a savage tiger, but had little sympathy with the performance of a tame one.

The next surprise that Mr. Kelson had for his audience, was the announcement that he could interpret the language of animals.  At his invitation, a dozen members of the audience came on to the platform and stood near the cage.  Looking steadily at the tiger he then pronounced the mystic words “Meta—­ra—­ka—­va—­avakana,” holding up his right hand, with the thumb turned down and stretched right across the palm, and the little finger extended to the utmost.  In an instant the great secret—­the secret that Darwin had studied so strenuously for years—­was revealed to him.  The language of animals was olfactory.  The tiger spoke to him through the sense of smell—­through his nose instead of his ears.  It regulated and modified the odour it gave off from its body, and which worked its way out through the pores of its skin, just as human beings regulate and modify the intonations of their voices.  Indeed, so delicate are the olfactory organs of animals that the faintest of these language smells makes an impression on them, which impression is at once interpreted by the brain.  If an animal wishes to leave a message behind it, it merely impregnates some article—­a leaf or a root, or a clump of grass—­or merely the ether with a brain smell, and any other animal, happening to pass by the spot, within a certain time (in favourable weather), will at once be attracted by the smell, and be able to interpret it.  That is the reason one so often sees an animal suddenly stop at a spot and sniff it—­it is reading some message left there by some other animal.  All this, and more, Kelson explained to his audience, who were exceedingly interested, many of them getting up to ask him questions.  He also reported to them the tiger’s conversation, which consisted chiefly of complaints against the management with regard to its food.