“There’s no use pulling off a rough-house,” he counselled.  “I don’t want to lose Jackson and he’ll put you into hospital if he ever gets started.  Send the dog back where you got him.  Your wife’s told me about him.  Stick him into a box and send him back collect.  Collins won’t mind.  He’ll take the singing out of him and work him into something.”

Davis, with another glance at the truculent Jackson, wavered.

“I’ll tell you what,” the manager went on persuasively.  “Jackson will attend to the whole thing, box him up, ship him, everything—­won’t you, Jackson?”

The stage-hand nodded curtly, then reached down and gently caressed Michael’s bruised head.

“Well,” Davis gave in, turning on his heel, “they can make fools of themselves over dogs, them that wants to.  But when they’ve been in the business as long as I have . . . "

CHAPTER XXXI

A post card from Davis to Collins explained the reasons for Michael’s return.  “He sings too much to suit my fancy,” was Davis’s way of putting it, thereby unwittingly giving the clue to what Collins had vainly sought, and which Collins as unwittingly failed to grasp.  As he told Johnny: 

“From the looks of the beatings he’s got no wonder he’s been singing.  That’s the trouble with these animal people.  They don’t know how to take care of their property.  They hammer its head off and get grouched because it ain’t an angel of obedience.—­Put him away, Johnny.  Wash him clean, and put on the regular dressing wherever the skin’s broken.  I give him up myself, but I’ll find some place for him in the next bunch of dogs.”

Two weeks later, by sheerest accident, Harris Collins made the discovery for himself of what Michael was good for.  In a spare moment in the arena, he had sent for him to be tried out by a dog man who needed several fillers-in.  Beyond what he knew, such as at command to stand up, to lie down, to come here and go there, Michael had done nothing.  He had refused to learn the most elementary things a show-dog should know, and Collins had left him to go over to another part of the arena where a monkey band, on a sort of mimic stage, was being arranged and broken in.

Frightened and mutinous, nevertheless the monkeys were compelled to perform by being tied to their seats and instruments and by being pulled and jerked from off stage by wires fastened to their bodies.  The leader of the orchestra, an irascible elderly monkey, sat on a revolving stool to which he was securely attached.  When poked from off the stage by means of long poles, he flew into ecstasies of rage.  At the same time, by a rope arrangement, his chair was whirled around and around.  To an audience the effect would be that he was angered by the blunders of his fellow-musicians.  And to an audience such anger would be highly ludicrous.  As Collins said: