Adventures in Many Lands

by Various

  IX

  MY ADVENTURE WITH A LION

  I once served an apprenticeship on a New York newspaper, and some of myexperiences as a reporter on the _Evening Smile_ I shall never forget.

  A reporter on an American newspaper is like a soldier--he is expected toobey orders implicitly, even at the risk of his life. For this reason heis paid well, but a nervous reporter often goes out of the office withhis heart in his mouth and an "assignment" that makes him thinkseriously of taking out another insurance policy on his life.

  One gloomy winter's morning I got down to the office at eight o'clock asusual, and had hardly reached my desk when the news editor--a kind man,who was always giving me opportunities of distinguishing myself--came upand began to speak at once in a very mysterious voice.

  "Got a dandy assignment for you this morning," he said.

  I looked up gratefully.

  "I guess you carry a six-shooter, don't you?" he asked. "You may need itthis trip."

  "Oh!" I managed to gasp.

  "A lion's escaped," he went on, in the quick, nervous American way ofan American news editor.

  "Has it really?" I said, wondering what was coming next.

  "Jaffray's Circus came to town last night, the lion somehow got out, andthey've been chasing it all night. Got it cornered in a stable at last,somewhere in East 19th Street; but it attacked and mauled a valuablehorse there, and I understand is still at bay. That's all I know. Get upthere as quick as you like, and get us a regular blazing story of it.You can run to a column," he added over his shoulder, as he returned tohis desk to distribute the other morning assignments, "and let's haveyour copy down by messenger in time for the first edition."

  No one ever disputed with the news editor, or asked unnecessaryquestions, but many a reporter did a lot of steady thinking when he gotoutside the office and safely on to the doorstep.

  I crammed my pocket full of paper from the big heap at the middle table,and swaggered out of the room with my nose in the air, as though huntingescaped lions was a little matter I attended to every day of my life,and that did not disturb me an atom.

  An overhead train soon rattled me up to East 19th Street, but it wassome time before I found the stable where the lion awaited me, for 19thStreet runs from Broadway down to the East River, and is a mile or twoin length, and full of stables. Not far from the corner of IrvingPlace, however, I got on to the scent of my quarry, and I had hardlyjoined the group that had collected at the corner before a noise likedistant thunder rose on the air, and every single person in the groupturned tail and began to run for safety.

  "What's the trouble?" I asked of a man as he dashed past me.

  "Lion in that stable!" he shouted, pointing to the big wooden doorsacross the road. "Escaped from the circus. Savage as they make 'em.Killed a trotting-horse in there, and no one can get near it. They sayit's a man-eater, too!"

  Another roar burst out as he spoke, and the crowd that had begun tocollect again scattered in an instant in all directions. There was nodoubt about that sound: it was a genuine lion's roar, and it soundeddeeper, I thought, than any roar I had ever heard before.

  But news was news, and in this case news was bread-and-butter. I mustget the facts, and be quick about it, too, for my copy had to be writtenout and in the office of the _Evening Smile_ in time for the firstedition. There was barely an hour in which to do the whole business.

  I forced my way through the crowd now gathering again on the corner, andmade my way across the road to where a group of men was standing not farfrom the stable doors. They moved about a bit when the roars came, butnone of them ran, and I noticed some of them had pistols in their hands,and some heavy crowbars, and other weapons. Evidently, I judged, theywere men connected with the circus, and I joined the group andexplained my mission.

  "Well, that's right enough," said one of them. "You've got a grandnewspaper story this time. Old Yellow Hair's in there, sure pop! And,what's more, I don't see how we're ever going to get him out again."

  "The horse must be stiff by now," said another. "He was mauled half todeath an hour ago."

  "It'd be a shame to have to shoot him," added a third, meaning the lion."He's the best animal in the whole circus; but he is awful savage."

  "That's a fact," chimed in a fourth. "There's no flies on old YellowHair."

  Some one touched me on the arm and introduced himself as a reporter fromthe _Evening Grin_--a fellow-worker in distress. He said he didn't likethe job at all. He wanted us to go off and concoct a "fake story." But Iwouldn't agree to this, and it fell through; for unless all the eveningpapers conspire to write the same story there's always trouble at theoffice when the reporters get back.

  Other reporters kept joining the group, and in twenty minutes from thetime of my arrival on the scene there must have been a good dozen of us.Every paper in town was represented. It was a first-class news story,and the men who were paid by space were already working hard to improveits value by getting new details, such as the animal's history andpedigree, names of previous victims, human or otherwise, thedescription and family history of its favourite keeper, and every otherimaginable detail under the sun.

  "There's an empty loft above the stable," said one of the circus men,pointing to a smaller door on the storey above; and before ten minuteshad passed some one arrived with a ladder, and the string of unwillingreporters was soon seen climbing up the rungs and disappearing like ratsinto a hole through the door of the loft. We drew lots for places, and Icame fifth.

  Before going up, however, I had got a messenger-boy stationed in thestreet below to catch my "copy" and hurry off with it to the _EveningSmile_ as soon as I could compose the wonderful story and throw it downto him. The reporter on an evening paper in New York has to write his"stuff," as we called it, in wonderful and terrible places, and underall sorts of conditions. The only rules he must bear in mind are: Getthe news, and get it _quick_. Accuracy is a mere detail for latereditions--or not at all.

  The loft was dark and small, and we only just managed to squeeze in. Itsmelt pleasantly of hay. But there was another odour besides, that noone understood at first, and that was decidedly unpleasant. Overheadwere thick rafters. I think every one of us noticed these before henoticed anything else, for the instant the roar of that lion sounded upthrough the boards under our feet the reporters scattered like chaffbefore the wind, and scuttled up into those rafters with a speed, anddust, and clatter I have never seen equalled. It was like sparrowsflying from the sudden onslaught of a cat.

  Fat men, lean men, long men, short men--I never saw such a collection ofnews-gatherers; smart men from the big papers, shabby fellows from thegutter press, hats flying, papers fluttering; and in less than a secondafter the roar was heard there was not a solitary figure to be seen onthe floor. Every single man had gone aloft.

  We all came down again when the roar ceased, and with subsequent roarswe got a little more accustomed to the shaking of the boards under ourfeet. But the first time at such close quarters, with only a shakywooden roof between us and "old Yellow Hair," was no joke, and we allbehaved naturally and without pose or affectation, and ran for safety,or rather climbed for it.

  There was a trap-door in the floor through which, I suppose, the hay waspassed down to the horses under normal circumstances. One by one wecrawled on all-fours to this trap-door and peered through. The scenebelow I can see to this day. As soon as one's eyes got a littleaccustomed to the gloom the outline of the stalls became first visible.Then a human figure seated on the top of an old refrigerator, with apistol in one hand, pointed at a corner opposite, came into view. Thenanother man, seated astride the division between the stalls, could beseen. And last, but not least, I saw the dark mass on the floor in thefar corner, where the dead horse lay mangled and the monster of a lionsprawled across his carcass, with great paws outstretched, and shiningeyes.

  From time to time the man on the ice-box fired his pistol, and everytime he did this the lion roared, and the reporters flew and climbedaloft. T
he trap-door was never occupied a single second after the roarbegan, and as the number of persons in the loft increased and the thinwooden floor began to bend and shake, a number of these adventurousnews-gatherers remained aloft and never put foot to ground. Braverreporters threw their copy out of the door to the messenger-boys below,and every time this feat was accomplished the crowd, safely watching onthe corners opposite, cheered and clapped their hands. A steady streamof writing dropped from that loft-door and poured all the morning intothe offices of the evening newspapers; while the morning-newspaper mensat quietly and looked on, knowing that they could write up their ownaccount later from the reports in the evening sheets.

  The men in the stable below, occupying positions of great peril, were,of course, connected with the travelling circus. We shouted downquestions to them, but more often got a pistol-shot instead of a voiceby way of reply. Where all those bullets went to was a matter foranxious speculation amongst us, and the roaring of the lion combinedwith the reports of the six-shooter to keep us fairly dancing on thatwooden floor as if we were practising a cake-walk.

  A sound of cheering from the crowd outside, swelling momentarily as theneighbourhood awoke to the situation, brought us with a rush to the topof the ladder.

  "It's the strong man!" cried several voices. "The strong man of thecircus. He'll fix up the lion quick enough. Give him a chance!"

  A huge man, who, rightly enough, proved to be the performing strong manof the circus, was seen making his way through the crowd, askingquestions as he went. A pathway opened up for him as if by magic, and,carrying a mighty iron crowbar, he reached the foot of the ladder andbegan to climb up.

  Thrilled by the sight of this monster with the determined-looking jaw, adozen men rushed forward to hold the bottom of the ladder while heascended; but when he was about half-way up, the lion was inconsiderateenough to give forth a most terrifying roar, with the immediate resultthat the men holding the ladder turned tail with one accord and fled.The ladder slipped a few inches, and the ascending Samson, crowbar andall, very neatly came to the ground with a crash. Fortunately, however,he just managed to grab the ledge of the door, and a dozen reportersseized him by the shoulders and dragged him, safe, but a trifleundignified, into the loft.

  Talking very loud, and referring to the lion with a richness of epithetsI have never heard equalled before or since, he crossed the floor andbegan to squeeze through the hole into the dangerous region below. In amoment he was hanging with legs dangling, and a second later haddropped heavily into a pile of hay underneath him. We lowered thecrowbar to him, breathless with admiration; and then a strange thinghappened. For, while the lion roared and the pistols banged, and wereporters tumbled over each other to get a glimpse of the attack of thelion on the strong man, or _vice versa_, lo! a voice below shouted toclose the trap, and the same instant a board from below shot across theopening and completely obliterated our view.

  "We'll have to fake that part of the fight," said a reporter. "Must allagree on the same yarn."

  The sounds from below prevented the details being agreed upon just atthat moment, for such a hoolabaloo as we then heard is simplyindescribable--shooting, lion roaring, strong man shouting, crowbarclanging, and the sound of breaking wood and heavy bodies falling.

  Outside the crowd heard it too, and remained absolutely silent. Most ofthem, indeed, had vanished! Every minute they expected to see the doorsburst open and the enraged animal rush out with the strong man betweenhis jaws, and their silence was accordingly explained by their absence.

  At least half of the reporters were still among the rafters when thetrap-door shot back in the floor, and a voice cried breathlessly thatthe strong man had caged the lion.

  It was, indeed, a thrilling moment. We clambered down the ladder and outinto the street just in time to see the great doors open and aprocession emerge that was worth all the travelling circuses in theworld put together to see.

  First came the trainer, with a pistol in either hand. Following him wasthe man with the small crowbar who had sat on the division between thestalls. Then came a great iron cage, which had been in the stable allthe time, but a little out of our line of vision in a dark corner, sothat no one had observed it.

  In this cage lay the huge exhausted lion, panting, on its side, withlather dripping from its great jaws.

  And on the top of the cage, seated tailor-wise, dressed in a very loudcheck ulster, and wearing a bell-shaped opera-hat on the side of hishead, was the proud figure of the victorious strong man. The expressionon his face was worth painting, but it is wholly beyond me to describeit. Such exultation and glorious pride was worthy of the mightiestgladiator that ever fought in an arena.

  His long curly hair, shining with oil, escaped in disorder from hismarvellously shaped top hat, and the massive crowbar that had broughthim his hard-won victory stood upright on one end, grasped in hisgigantic hand. He smiled round on the gathering crowd, and theprocession moved proudly up the streets till within half an hour thepeople following and cheering must have numbered many thousands.

  We reporters rushed off to our various offices, and the streets weresoon afterwards lively with newspaper-boys shouting the news and wavingsheets of terrible and alarming headlines about the "escaped lion andits fearful ravages," and the "strong man who had captured it after aghastly battle for his life."

  Next day the morning papers did not publish a solitary line about thegreat event; but in the advertising columns of every newspaper appearedthe prospectus of the travelling circus just come to town, and inparticularly bold type the public were told to be sure and see YellowHair, the savage man-eating lion, that had escaped the day before andkilled a valuable horse in a private stable where it had been chased bythe terrified keepers; and, in the paragraph below, the details followedof the wonderful strong man, Samson, who had caught and caged the lionsingle-handed, armed only with a crowbar.

  It was the best advertisement a circus ever had; and most of it was notpaid for!

  * * * * *

  "Guess you knew it was all a fake?" queried the news editor nextmorning, as he gave me the usual assignment.

  It was my first week on an American paper, and I stared at him, waitingfor the rest.

  "That lion hasn't a tooth in its head. They dragged in a dead horse inthe night. You wrote a good story, though. Cleaned your pistol yet?"

  X

  THE SECRET CAVE OF HYDAS