“But man is the boss, and he can’t afford to be so easy.  Drive the lesson home that you’re boss.  Rub it in.  Don’t stop when he quits.  Make him swallow the medicine and lick the spoon.  Make him kiss your foot on his neck holding him down in the dirt.  Make him kiss the stick that’s beaten him.—­Watch!”

And Hannibal, the largest lion in captivity, with all his teeth, captured out of the jungle after he was full-grown, a veritable king of beasts, before the menacing broomstick in the hand of a sliver of a man, backed deeper and more crumpled together into the corner.  His back was bowed up, the very opposite muscular position to that for a spring, while he drew his head more and more down and under his chest in utter abjectness, resting his weight on his elbows and shielding his poor nose with his massive paws, a single stroke of which could have ripped the life of Collins quivering from his body.

“Now he might be tricky,” Collins announced, “but he’s got to kiss my foot and the stick just the same.  Watch!”

He lifted and advanced his left foot, not tentatively and hesitantly, but quickly and firmly, bringing it to rest on the lion’s neck.  The stick was poised to strike, one act ahead of the lion’s next possible act, as Collins’s mind was one thought ahead of the lion’s next thought.

And Hannibal did the forecasted and predestined.  His head flashed up, huge jaws distended, fangs gleaming, to sink into the slender, silken-hosed ankle above the tan low-cut shoes.  But the fangs never sank.  They were scarcely started a fifth of the way of the distance, when the waiting broomstick rapped on his nose and made him sink it in the floor under his chest and cover it again with his paws.

“He ain’t crazy,” said Collins.  “He knows, from the little he knows, that I know more than him and that I’ve got him licked to a fare-you-well.  If he was crazy, he wouldn’t know, and I wouldn’t know his mind either, and I wouldn’t be that one jump ahead of him, and he’d get me and mess the whole cage up with my insides.”

He prodded Hannibal with the end of the broom-handle, after each prod poising it for a stroke.  And the great lion lay and roared in helplessness, and at each prod exposed his nose more and lifted it higher, until, at the end, his red tongue ran out between his fangs and licked the boot resting none too gently on his neck, and, after that, licked the broomstick that had administered all the punishment.

“Going to be a good lion now?” Collins demanded, roughly rubbing his foot back and forth on Hannibal’s neck.

Hannibal could not refrain from growling his hatred.

“Going to be a good lion?” Collins repeated, rubbing his foot back and forth still more roughly.

And Hannibal exposed his nose and with his red tongue licked again the tan shoe and the slender, tan-silken ankle that he could have destroyed with one crunch.