“I pin my faith on the Airedale when it comes to lion dogs,” the leopard man demurred.

“So’s an Irish terrier a lion dog.  Take that one there.  Look at the size and weight of him.  Also, take it from me, he’s all spunk.  He’ll stand up to anything.  Try him out.  I’ll lend him to you.  If he makes good I’ll sell him to you cheap.  An Irish terrier for a leopard dog will be a novelty.”

“If he gets fresh with them cats he’ll find his finish,” Johnny told Collins, as Michael was led away by the leopard man.

“Then, maybe, the stage will lose a star,” Collins answered, with a shrug of shoulders.  “But I’ll have him off my chest anyway.  When a dog gets a perpetual sour-ball like that he’s finished.  Never can do a thing with them.  I’ve had them on my hands before.”

* * * * *

And Michael went to make the acquaintance of Jack, the surviving Airedale, and to do his daily turn with the leopards.  In the big spotted cats he recognized the hereditary enemy, and, even before he was thrust into the cage, his neck was all a-prickle as the skin nervously tightened and the hair uprose stiff-ended.  It was a nervous moment for all concerned, the introduction of a new dog into the cage.  The tow-headed leopard man, who was billed on the boards as Raoul Castlemon and was called Ralph by his intimates, was already in the cage.  The Airedale was with him, while outside stood several men armed with iron bars and long steel forks.  These weapons, ready for immediate use, were thrust between the bars as a menace to the leopards who were, very much against their wills, to be made to perform.

They resented Michael’s intrusion on the instant, spitting, lashing their long tails, and crouching to spring.  At the same instant the trainer spoke with sharp imperativeness and raised his whip, while the men on the outside lifted their irons and advanced them intimidatingly into the cage.  And the leopards, bitter-wise of the taste of the iron, remained crouched, although they still spat and whipped their tails angrily.

Michael was no coward.  He did not slink behind the man for protection.  On the other hand, he was too sensible to rush to attack such formidable creatures.  What he did do, with bristling neck-hair, was to stalk stiff-leggedly across the cage, turn about with his face toward the danger, and stalk stiffly back, coming to a pause alongside of Jack, who gave him a good-natured sniff of greeting.

“He’s the stuff,” the trainer muttered in a curiously tense voice.  “They don’t get his goat.”

The situation was deservedly tense, and Ralph developed it with cautious care, making no abrupt movements, his eyes playing everywhere over dogs and leopards and the men outside with the prods and bars.  He made the savage cats come out of their crouch and separate from one another.  At his word of command, Jack walked about among them.  Michael, on his own initiative, followed.  And, like Jack, he walked very stiffly on his guard and very circumspectly.