tch the jungle monarch but the one
wallop with his oar.

"Down!" thundered Angus Jones.

The lion snarled, spat, crouched--and began to shake its paws in the air
and to lick its fur like any prowler of the back fence, all forlorn and
bedraggled.

"Kitty, kitty!" said Angus Jones....

The lion blinked up at him. He stooped and tickled it between the ears.
When he stood up again the rope was noosed about its neck, and the other
end of the rope was in his hand. He hailed me to stand forth, and I
obeyed in fear and great wonder.

[Illustration: _A Rex Ingram--Metro Picture._

_Where the Pavement End._

A SCENE FROM THE PHOTOPLAY.]

"Do you see me?" said Angus Jones. "I am come of the dominant race. Do
you see my cat? It is the proper pet for such a man. And now--" He drew
a long breath through his nose. "And now we will resume our
investigations amid the haunts of these simple islanders."

So we turned back and made our second entrance into Funchal--Angus Jones
and I--and the lion on a leading string. It was stupendous, and yet it
went simply enough. Our progress was slow because Thomas--Angus declared
his name was Thomas--had to sit down every few feet and wash his feet or
his face or some part of him. He seemed a well-mannered and an amiable
beast. But he was a fearsome thing to look upon, striding up the
peaceful rua, and I took no part when Angus Jones yanked him along.

* * * * *

We called first at the shop of Joao Gomez. There was evidence that Joao
had departed by the back way within the moment. But if he stood not upon
his going we made even less of it. Those sausages in silver foil were
the true fruit of Bologna, ripe and spicy, and there were chocolates,
and dainty biscuits in tins, pickled mussels and Logos figs, anchovies
and raisins and hams, real Estremadura, known to song and story. Such
delights an epicure might have grudged us, but no epicure ever brought
the sharp tooth shared by us three. For three at the feast we were.
Angus Jones herded the lion into a corner and fed him with a ham, and he
was grateful and made about two bites of it.

"Thomas," said Angus Jones, "I see your grievance is like our own--grown
up among whips and scorns. Lay on, my son. 'Tis the day of triumph." And
his eye was bright like a china button.

"Can you hold him to it?" I asked as we sat in the ruins of Joao's
stock.

"Who? Thomas? He also has played a part on many stages. Do you