To his amazement, if such a thing be possible in the mental processes of a tiger, the rear door to his cage was thrown open and left open.  He regarded the aperture with belligerent suspicion.  No one and no threatening danger appeared in the doorway.  But his suspicion grew.  Always, among these man-animals, occurred what he did not know and could not comprehend.  His preference was to remain where he was, but from behind, through the bars of the cage, came shouts and yells, the lash of whips, and the painful thrusts of the long iron forks.  Dragging the rope behind him, with no thought of escape, but in the hope that he would get at his tormentors, he leaped into the rear passage that ran behind the circle of permanent cages.  The passage way was deserted and dark, but ahead he saw light.  With great leaps and roars, he rushed in that direction, arousing a pandemonium of roars and screams from the animals in the cages.

He bounded through the light, and into the light, dazzled by the brightness of it, and crouched down, with long, lashing tail, to orient himself to the situation.  But it was only another and larger cage that he was in, a very large cage, a big, bright performing-arena that was all cage.  Save for himself, the arena was deserted, although, overhead, suspended from the roof-bars, were block-and-tackle and seven strong iron chairs that drew his instant suspicion and caused him to roar at them.

For half an hour he roamed the arena, which was the greatest area of restricted freedom he had known in the ten weeks of his captivity.  Then, a hooked iron rod, thrust through the bars, caught and drew the bight of his trailing rope into the hands of the men outside.  Immediately ten of them had hold of it, and he would have charged up to the bars at them had not, at that moment, Mulcachy entered the arena through a door on the opposite side.  No bars stood between Ben Bolt and this creature, and Ben Bolt charged him.  Even as he charged he was aware of suspicion in that the small, fragile man-creature before him did not flee or crouch down, but stood awaiting him.

Ben Bolt never reached him.  First, with an access of caution, he craftily ceased from his charge, and, crouching, with lashing tail, studied the man who seemed so easily his.  Mulcachy was equipped with a long-lashed whip and a sharp-pronged fork of iron.

In his belt, loaded with blank cartridges, was a revolver.

Bellying closer to the ground, Ben Bolt advanced upon him, creeping slowly like a cat stalking a mouse.  When he came to his next pause, which was within certain leaping distance, he crouched lower, gathered himself for the leap, then turned his head to regard the men at his back outside the cage.  The trailing rope in their hands, to his neck, he had forgotten.

“Now you might as well be good, old man,” Mulcachy addressed him in soft, caressing tones, taking a step toward him and holding in advance the iron fork.