Michael’s wrath was as superlative as was his helplessness.  He could only bristle and tear his vocal chords with his rage.  But it was a very ancient and boresome experience to Collins.  He was even taking advantage of the moment to glance across the arena and size up what the bears were doing.

“Oh, you thoroughbred,” he sneered at Michael, returning his attention to him.  “Slack him!  Let go!”

The instant his bonds were released, Michael soared at Collins, and Collins, timing and distancing with the accuracy of long years, kicked him under the jaw and whirled him back and down into the sawdust.

“Hold him!” Collins ordered.  “Line him out!”

And the two youths, pulling in opposite directions with chain and rope, stretched him into helplessness.

Collins glanced across the ring to the entrance, where two teams of heavy draft-horses were entering, followed by a woman dressed to over-dressedness in the last word of a stylish street-costume.

“I fancy he’s never done any flipping,” Collins remarked, coming back to the problem of Michael for a moment.  “Take off your lead, Jimmy, and go over and help Smith.—­Johnny, hold him to one side there and mind your legs.  Here comes Miss Marie for her first lesson, and that mutt of a husband of hers can’t handle her.”

Michael did not understand the scene that followed, which he witnessed, for the youth led him over to look on at the arranging of the woman and the four horses.  Yet, from her conduct, he sensed that she, too, was captive and ill-treated.  In truth, she was herself being trained unwillingly to do a trick.  She had carried herself bravely right to the moment of the ordeal, but the sight of the four horses, ranged two and two opposing her, with the thing patent that she was to hold in her hands the hooks on the double-trees and form the link that connected the two spans which were to pull in opposite directions—­at the sight of this her courage failed her and she shrank back, drooping and cowering, her face buried in her hands.

“No, no, Billikens,” she pleaded to the stout though youthful man who was her husband.  “I can’t do it.  I’m afraid.  I’m afraid.”

“Nonsense, madam,” Collins interposed.  “The trick is absolutely safe.  And it’s a good one, a money-maker.  Straighten up a moment.”  With his hands he began feeling out her shoulders and back under her jacket.  “The apparatus is all right.”  He ran his hands down her arms.  “Now!  Drop the hooks.”  He shook each arm, and from under each of the fluffy lace cuffs fell out an iron hook fast to a thin cable of steel that evidently ran up her sleeves.  “Not that way!  Nobody must see.  Put them back.  Try it again.  They must come down hidden in your palms.  Like this.  See.—­That’s it.  That’s the idea.”

She controlled herself and strove to obey, though ever and anon she cast appealing glances to Billikens, who stood remote and aloof, his brows wrinkled with displeasure.