RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
ONE commentator on the Laws of Manu advises: "If you desire peace, make no miracles." Those of us who do not know how to make them will be willing to concede the point without getting angry about it. Ben Quorn, on the other hand, grew irritated because all the inhabitants of the Indian city of Narada thought of him not only as the maker of a miracle—but as the miracle itself.
"I'm an ex-taxicab driver with a clean record," he insisted.
But if you have eyes like a he-goat, and have tamed an angry elephant, and have had your portrait carved in stone on a wall in the public market place a thousand years before you were born; and if, because a princess rode the elephant behind you after you had tamed him, and in consequence was released from the law that keeps royal Indian ladies behind curtains; and if, in consequence of that, you are held to have fulfilled an ancient prophecy and have been appointed superintendent of the rajah's elephants, there is no peace for you—none whatever, as Quorn discovered.
It was wonderful at first, with thirty-four great elephants and thirty-four mahouts to do his bidding. Quorn took enormous pride in the elephants because, for some strange reason, they appeared to love him. When he entered the great compound under the neem trees within the ancient limestone wall, and the rising sun was gilding everything with pale gold through which crowds of bright green parakeets wove sudden patterns, then Quorn enjoyed even the sacred monkeys that were blamed for stealing the elephants' grain, which of course the mahouts had really sold, or swapped for strong drink.
The monkeys would scamper away, being reputed sacred, whereas they knew, of course, that they were nothing of the kind, so they had guilty consciences and preferred not to be noticed. But four and thirty enormous elephants would salute Quorn, raising their trunks in air; and there would be tantrums and sulking all day long if he passed by one of them without some sort of recognition. Wordless it might be, and even motionless; but Quorn had discovered that there is a bond of sympathy between beast and man, along which flows mutual understanding if you have the trick.
"You stand still, and you like 'em, and they get you—same as a girl gets the smell of roses," was Quorn's way of explaining it.
YOU astonish me with the way you manage elephants," the rajah said one morning. "Some men born to the business don't do as well as you. How is it that you know how?"
"Don't need to know how, sir," Quorn retorted. "It's like the rajah business. Your ministers know all the rigmarole. If things ain't working right, I guess you get yourself a new crew. Same here. These heathen mahouts they all know elephant; I make 'em do their stuff. That's all there is to it."
The rajah endured that comment on his statesmanship with royal patience. But whenever he was patient he had deep motives. Quorn who had learned a lot since he came to Narada had not discovered that yet.
"Are you good with other animals?" the rajah asked him.
"Had a dog once. Got run over by a truck."
"Did you ever see a tiger?"
"Plenty—at the circus. I've sometimes wondered, sir, whether them brutes aren't overrated. Such as I've seen was lazy. Folks'd think 'em terrible ferocious when they'd yawn and stretch 'emselves, but they look to me like out size pussy cats—good lookers, but not much to be skeered of. Maybe I'm ignorant."
The rajah smiled. He watched Quorn count out stalks of sugar cane to make sure that the mahouts had stolen none of it; he watched him dose a two ton stomach ache with laudanum and then put fly bane on the edge of a ragged ear.
"Tigers," he said presently, "are not half as dangerous as elephants. A tiger can only bite and claw. An elephant can crush. I have seen many a tiger and many a man crushed flat under an elephant's paw. There are three elephants in this compound that have killed both men and tigers!"
After which the rajah rode away. And presently came Moses, who had been watching both of them, but especially watching the rajah's tell tale eyes. Moses was Quorn's Eurasian servant, who, being one eyed, sometimes saw only half of anything; and being half white he only told half secrets; but the other half of him being Oriental, the important part of every secret remained hidden in the dim recesses of his mind.
"If I were you, Mr. Quorn, I think I would return to the United States," he suggested.
"You ain't me," Quorn retorted, "and you haven't ever hunted a job back where I come from."
"Are there temple priests there, Mr. Quorn?"
"Maybe. I've driven most sorts of folks. I reckon priests ain't worse than politicians."
Moses changed the subject.
"Aren't you coming home to tiffin, Mr. Quorn? I've brought your sun spectacles."
Quorn had taken to wearing goggles in the streets because they reduced his strange resemblance to the Gunga Sahib, whose portrait, riding on an elephant, had been carved a thousand years ago on the limestone market wall. He hated to be stared at, and he did not enjoy the thought of looking like a heathen Hindu who had been dead for centuries.
He was usually in a hurry to get home to the midday meal, because the sight of an elephant eating a hundred pounds of hay aroused his appetite. But this time Moses led him down the long street called Pul-ke-nichi, meaning "underneath the bridge", the street where the fortune tellers and the nostrum sellers do a roaring business in between the offices of money lenders and the booths of cheap jack merchants. It is a smelly street, but interesting. Quorn protested, but Moses pleaded—
"It is necessaree that I show you something, Mr. Quorn."
SO presently they stood beneath the bridge, where Moses shyly indicated the cause of their walking out of their way in the heat of an Indian noon. It is a very ancient bridge, and beautiful because time has smoothed it and obliterated all its builder's sins. It connects two ancient temples built on low hills known as Kali's Bosom. But nowadays the priests of those two temples are not on speaking terms except when they meet to agree on fines and penances to be imposed on other people, so there are no longer glorious processions from one temple to the other, and men have grown so superstitious about crossing the bridge that the grass grows in the cracks of the limestone pavement and the doves build nests on the shoulders of gods and goddesses that face inward from the parapet on either side, cooing there all day long as if there were no such thing as hawks in the azure heaven.
"Will you kindlee look at that," said Moses.
Carved on the wall of the limestone arch beneath the bridge there was a tiger being led into what appeared to be a temple door, by a lady who wore jeweled anklets. The tiger had some sort of collar and she led him with her left hand. In her right hand there were flowers.
"For her funeral, after the tiger eats her," Quorn suggested, but driving cabs in Philadelphia had not made him an authority on mystic symbolism.
"No, that is an ancient prophetic utterance," said Moses. "That is said to be the same princess whom the man named Gunga Sahib rescued on an elephant from durance vile, only he did not finish doing so because the elephant killed him. And it is part of the legend that after the elephant slew the Gunga Sahib, her angree royal parent put her into a tiger's cage in a courtyard of this temple. Nevertheless she tamed the tiger and led him forth across the bridge into that other temple. And people say—"
"Shucks!" remarked Quorn. "People are always talking bunk."
"And people say," said Moses, "that you are Gunga Sahib come to life again, because you look like Gunga Sahib and because you tamed the big elephant and brought the Princess Sankyamuni into the city on his back."
"They're looney."
"And they say that consequentlee the Princess Sankyamuni must be that princess of the legend, also returned into the world to finish that which was begun by Gunga Sahib but not finished, many centuries ago."
"Meaning she's got to be et by the tiger?" Quorn suggested.
Moses preferred to offer no opinion as to that, and Quorn was hungry, so they made haste to the gate house of the abandoned mission where Quorn lived nominally as caretaker, although Moses did the actual loafing around the place, which was all that the task amounted to.
And while Quorn sat eating curry and rice, came Bamjee, the rajah's business agent—Bamjee the ex-telegrapher, with his big head blazing in a flame colored turban, his big eyes observing everything through gold rimmed spectacles, his big mouth showing white teeth in a smile that would have thawed a money lender, and his undersized body resplendent in a gray silk suit. A very prosperous and distinguished babu, with a B.A. degree, a platinum watch chain and no advertised prejudices. Being also a person of tact, he took one of the chairs in the shade of the porch until Quorn had finished eating, which gave him plenty of time to consider how to break his rather awkward news; so he was ready by the time Quorn filled his pipe and came and sat beside him. When Bamjee was ready, very often all the unseen wheels beneath the surface of Narada began moving.
"MR. QUORN, the priests are very much offended with you."
"Me?"
"Because you brought the Princess Sankyamuni through the city on the back of that great elephant Asoka and all the people said you are the Gunga Sahib come to life again. They said also that an ancient prophecy has been fulfilled. Therefore, as you know, the priests were obliged to agree that the Princess Sankyamuni shall be released from purdah and may go where she pleases in public without losing caste. The priests could not help it. But they consider it a very bad example to the other Indian ladies, and they are also angry because their hand was forced. So they have revived another ancient legend, according to which the princess whom Gunga rescued was afterwards thrown into a tiger's den. She contrived to tame the tiger and she led him from one temple into another one, across the bridge connecting them.
"Nevertheless, her angry royal parent made her spend all the rest of her days in lonely seclusion because she wished to go about in public and to do good. But it was prophesied that she should be reborn some day, and that people should know her because she would repeat the taming of the tiger. The priests make the logical assertion, Mr. Quorn, that if one prophecy has been fulfilled, then so must that other one be also. Therefore, if the Princess Sankyamuni wishes to be a modern woman and to enjoy her liberty, she must be put into a tiger's den and she must tame him. They have a very ferocious tiger ready for her."
Quorn's pipe went out
"I ain't no princess. What has the tiger to do with me?" he demanded.
"You are in a predicament, Mr. Quorn. His Highness, the Rajah of Narada, made you superintendent of his elephants in order to be able to protect you from the priests. The crowd has called you Gunga Sahib, and his Highness foresaw how annoyed the priests would be. He was happy to score off the priests. But his Highness is a potentate of sudden gratitudes and generosities, who very quickly wearies of being merely philanthropic."
"Cheese it!" Quorn retorted. "I've already saved him nearly half his bill for elephant feed."
Bamjee blinked. As purchasing agent on commission, he was aware that purchases had fallen off since Quorn became superintendent. Quorn could quickly see through the mahouts' little tricks, but he needed time to plumb the depths of Bamjee's mind.
"The Princess Sankyamuni," Bamjee went on, "asked her royal parent for advice concerning this new development. His Highness consulted me. I said that possibly Mr. Quorn, who is so successful with the elephants, can tame a tiger also, and in that case everything might turn out fortunately."
"Trust you not to mind your own business!" remarked Quorn. "So that's what he meant this morning when he asked me whether I know tigers."
"Yes, and he wishes you to tame that tiger. Also, the Princess Sankyamuni wants to talk with you," said Bamjee.
"Nix! Nothing doing! I ain't hired to tame tigers! Me, a woman, and a tiger don't mix! Ask the court astrologer; he'll tell you it's in my horoscope."
BUT Quorn was playing against destiny and the cards were stacked. "She did ask the astrologer," said Bamjee. "The astrologer said that, because of the position of the Sun and Saturn in her Tenth House, if she should tame the tiger she will very soon inherit all her royal parent's dominion and you will become her principal adviser."
"Me?"
"And the worst of it is, Mr. Quorn, that being a woman, and therefore talkative, she told one of her attendants, who told her royal parent what the astrologer said. And consequently, he is naturally not altogether anxious that the tiger should be too tame."
"Jee-rusalem! Moses was right. I'm going home to Philadelphia!"
"Unfortunately, Mr. Quorn, if you should try to go away just now the people would say that because you are undoubtedly a reincarnation of that personage named Gunga, therefore you belong, as it were, to them, and they derive great comfort from having you here in their midst. And of course, there is no railway in Narada, so you would have to go by carriage, which they could very easily prevent. I think they would be so indignant if you should try to go that they might kill you. The priests are most strategic and crowds, being mercurial, are easily influenced, Mr. Quorn. And they are so looking forward to this ceremony with the princess and the tiger that if they were to be deprived of it, there might be riots. And since she can not go through with the ceremony unless you will help her, you would be responsible for the rioting if you should refuse. And if she does not go through with it she will be forced again into seclusion."
"You mean they'd take away her liberty? They'd make her hide behind a curtain all her life?"
"Yes," said Bamjee. "And the princess wishes to talk with you this afternoon at four o'clock."
Quorn could not even light his pipe, he was so upset. Instinct urged him to throw up his job and go home to Philadelphia, disguised if necessary. But he remembered how seasick he had been on the voyage to India. And then, again, there are not many ex-taxi drivers who have an opportunity to talk about a tiger with a princess in her palace while a hundred thousand people almost breathlessly await the outcome.
Pride is subtle stuff, and so is curiosity. He decided he would give his answer when Bamjee should return for him in a royal carriage with two horses that afternoon at half past three. Meanwhile, he would think it over.
But the thinkers are not many. As a commentator on the Laws of Manu says, "They who believe they think are oftener than not like harlots waiting for a lover, knowing neither whence he shall come nor who he may be."
When Bamjee had gone Moses came out from behind the reed blind that hung in the open doorway to keep out heat and dust. He had obviously been listening, which made Quorn unreasonably irritable. And if we won't be reasonable, destiny makes use of our unreasonableness, so says the selfsame commentator, which almost makes it look as if destiny holds the long end of the lever.
"Mr. Quorn, I think that Bamjee wishes to be rid of you because the corn for the elephants no longer is stolen and therefore Bamjee receives less commission. He thinks if you should try to tame the tiger you might be eliminated."
"And you don't want that for fear you might lose your own job cooking for me. Gurr-rrgh! I know you!"
That settled it. Quorn's unreasonable irritation tipped the scale. It caused him to decide to talk things over with the Princess Sankyamuni. He assured himself that a mere discussion commits nobody. But if destiny and a lovely woman are on the same side of the balance, there is not much chance for a man from Philadelphia, or from any other place, to escape without gaining at least experience. Quorn might have thought of that too, but he was angry. Angry men don't think much.
Bamjee arrived silk suited, in a two horsed carriage with a turbaned footman up behind, and Quorn, in his ready made Sunday hand-me-downs and a new white helmet, drove with him to the part of the rajah's palace where the Princess Sankyamuni had already begun to taste the deadly democratic vices. And when the princess came into the great, cool, darkened drawing room, which was furnished in the jazz band Louis Quinze style but looked out on a quiet garden where a fountain played to some thousand year old statues of a dozen or so contemplative gods, there were only nine veiled maidens to protect her from the tongue of scandal; whereas, nineteen surely never would have been enough, when it is remembered that Quorn was the first non-Hindu masculine adventurer to set foot in the palace or to see her face unveiled.
PERHAPS it is not quite accurate to say he saw it, because it dazzled him. To Quorn it seemed that she was even lovelier than on the day of her famous ride behind him on the elephant. She paid the subtle compliment to liberty of wearing only half her jewels, so that there was less to distract attention from her eyes, which, according to Quorn, would have melted cast iron if she had looked at it long enough.
They melted Quorn's heart, timed by his heart beats, in eleven seconds. Trying to describe her afterward to Moses, and remembering the color of her sari and the turquoise bracelets on her beautifully modeled feet, he likened her to a nosegay wrapped in tissue paper. But Quorn never had the patience to read poetry, which he regarded as sinful waste of time. His metaphors were like a one horse hearse, suggesting the simplicity imposed by limitations.
The princess sat on an armchair, quite uncomfortable because she was used to lolling on sandal scented swansdown cushions; and her maidens sat around her in a semicircle, blushing behind their veils because they could not hide their pretty feet unless they sat upon them, and there was not room to sit upon them on those French plush covered chairs. Quorn stood, hiding his hands inside his helmet. Bamjee spoke first, although that was against the court rules as laid down by all palace chamberlains since royalty was first invented; but the silence was becoming awkward.
"Daughter of the Dawn, this babu begs you to remember—"
"You may leave us, Bamjee." He went out bowing, backward, utterly disgusted to discover that a wad of paper had been firmly wedged into the key hole and that the door made too much noise when he tried to clear the keyhole with his fountain pen.
"Shall I call you Gunga Sahib, or do you like your funny foreign name?" the princess asked.
She had a voice like honey oozing from the tips of rose buds. It suggested a virgin's dreams of paradise. It hinted at passion, ripening but not yet ready to be revealed.
"My name's Quorn, miss—beg pardon, miss, I mean, your Highness."
"No, I like 'miss' better. It sounds modern. Won't you sit down?"
Gingerly Quorn arranged himself on a row of brass headed studs at the edge of an imported plush and gilt chair. He hesitated, but decided not to lay his helmet on the floor because, for the first time in his life, he felt ashamed of his horny hands and preferred to hide them. He kept twisting the helmet by the sweat band, as if it were a receptacle in which he hoped to catch some sort of comfort.
"Can you tame a tiger, Mr. Quorn?"
"Me, miss?"
"You did so wonderfully with Asoka, and an elephant is so much bigger than a tiger. Besides, everybody knows that elephants can kill tigers if they can only catch them in a corner. So it stands to reason that whoever can tame the greater can tame the lesser. You have to admit that, Mr. Quorn. You must be logical, now mustn't you? I must have a very savage tiger tamed almost instantly. He has been purposely taught that all men are his enemies, and he is probably rather hungry."
"Gosh, miss, why not feed him?" It was cooler in that room than outside, but Quorn wiped the perspiration from his face.
"That might help, but the priests won't allow it. You see, they suspect I will ask you to help me, and they know you have lots of laudanum for the elephants when they have stomach ache, so they are afraid you might put laudanum in the tiger's meat. I have to lead that tiger out of his den, across the bridge, and into a cage in another temple."
"Asking your pardon for the question, miss, but isn't this proposition kinder crazy?"
"Oh, no. It is just symbolical. I lead hate out of Kali's temple into Siva's, where it is transmuted into love. I have consulted the astrologer. Isn't that what your Christian Daniel did before they threw him into the lion's den?"
"Tigers is different," Quorn objected, groping blindly for an argument. "Miss, isn't there a British political resident in Narada? Do you suppose the British Government 'ud allow a beautiful young lady to be pitched into a den o' tigers? I've heard a lot of criticism of the British, but nothing that bad."
"I believe there is such a person as a resident," said the princess, "but he is absent, fortunately. It would be unendurable, if he should interfere. I am quite sure I am a reincarnation of Sankyamuni; you see, I even have the same name. I am equally sure you are a reincarnation of Gunga Sahib, though you probably did some bad deeds in former lives that merited the karma of forgetfulness. I don't remember very clearly either. But I know the legends and the prophecies. You and I have seen one come true, so now let us tackle this one boldly."
QUORN did not feel even slightly bold, but he hated to admit it. "Tell me about it, miss." "Didn't Bamjee tell you? The priests say I must lead their tiger over the bridge from Kalil's temple into Siva's, symbolizing the transmutation of death into life—of evil into good—of passion into ecstasy?"
"Why not let them priests do that transmuting, miss?"
"Oh, no. They couldn't possibly. They are only poor priests. You and I are blossoms on a branch of destiny."
"Miss, I haven't done no blossoming since mother used to scrub my ears and pack me off to Sunday school with ten cents for the missionary box."
"If you don't believe in your destiny, then destiny will force you to believe," the princess answered. "For instance, the rajah, my father, insists somebody told him what the astrologer said about my becoming Ranee very soon, and your becoming my confidential adviser, if we face this ordeal bravely. My father hopes, of course, that you will be killed trying to tame the tiger, and that I will be afraid at the last minute. Then he could simply force me back into seclusion, and that would be the end of me. He would marry me to some one I have never seen. But I would rather die than that. I don't intend to be afraid. I am going through with this—with you or without you, Mr. Quorn."
Admiration took Quorn by the reins with which a man may govern judgment when he is not in the presence of incarnate youth and loveliness—and not for the first time in his life within a palace—and not indignant that a parent should be willing to toss that marvelous young woman to a tiger—and not almost equally indignant because he himself is to be included in the tiger's meal.
"Gosh!" he exclaimed, "I'd like to put one over on 'em!"
And the princess seized that opportunity as naively as she proposed to accept the other one. She sketched the situation swiftly for Quorn's benefit.
"You see, Gunga Sahib—I mean Mr. Quorn, if we succeed in this, we shall have defeated the priests forever. They will never again be able to challenge either of us, because they will have used up all the legends. The priests hate you as much as me. They can't endure to have the crowd regard you as the reincarnation of Gunga Sahib. And yet they themselves have said you are that, because the crowd insisted on it when they saw you ride Asoka. Sooner or later the priests would find some way of killing you, unless we put this over on them as you say. Afterward, when I am ranee, I will be able to protect you and we will do wonderful things."
"And when is all this supposed to happen, miss?"
"Oh, any time. Tomorrow would do nicely."
Quorn scratched his head. He felt like a man in a dream. His reeling brain could suggest no way out of the dilemma. But he was partly Scotch and had to bargain, as he would bargain at the trumpet of Judgment Day.
"Time costs nothing, miss—leastways, not here in Narada. Supposing you was to name a date a little later on. That special bad tiger might up and die on 'em. He might bite a priest and get ptomaine. That'd give us a bit better break. We might ring in a circus tiger, if we had time to shop around a bit, and maybe some o' them half fed subordinate priests might listen to the chink of money."
"The astrologer says we have until the next new moon," the princess answered. "We can't fail if we act before then. But if we wait until after the next new moon we can't succeed."
"Let's see—that's eleven, twelve, thirteen days."
Quorn hated the number thirteen. It invariably made him nervous. It made him so nervous now that he could think of nothing except that glorious pair of eyes that did not know what fear was. He was glad his insurance was paid up.
"Miss," he said, "this proposition is the darn' craziest I ever heard of. But I kinder like you, miss, if you'll excuse my saying so, and if you're all that set on taking such a crazy chance, I'll go you, provided you claim every one o' them thirteen days to give me half a chance to think in, and provided you act the way I warn you when the time comes."
HE knew he was behaving like a lunatic, but almost before he had finished speaking he was actually proud of it. The princess gurgled with delight. She rose, and he rose, and he dropped his helmet. Before he could prevent her she had seized his right, rough, horny hand in hers and was kissing it.
"There, there, now, missy, don't you carry on. We'll manage somehow."
She was crying, she was so delighted, and Quorn felt like a man who has been knighted on the field of battle. He trod on his helmet but contrived to pick it up and then backed away toward the door, where he stood holding the crushed helmet in both hands until the princess and her ladies had gone out past the gilt and enamel screen at the opposite side of the room. Then he opened the door and almost stumbled over Bamjee. The relief was instant. Swift reaction followed upon its heels. Thought flowed in as water flows into a dry sponge. An idea came to him. It was no more crazy than all the rest of it. He seized Bamjee by the throat and shook him, to the exquisite but suppressed delight of several palace servants, bitterly jealous of the business agent.
"You scheming rogue! This is your doing! You've got me into this mess. Now help me out of it! Listen, unless you want to be a legend and a prophecy and walk into that tiger's den ahead o' me, you do exactly what I say and hold your tongue about it. Get me a good tame circus tiger. Get him quick. I'll give you two days. I want him dumped there back of the elephant lines, in the cage in the old shed back of where Asoka's picket is. If he ain't tame, you'll be the first meal he tastes after I take one look at him. Do you get me? One tame tiger, paid for by you and delivered to me in the old shed back of the elephant lines, and not a word said."
Bamjee wished for the use of his windpipe. And, being a person without prejudices, he was quite willing to play anybody's game and sit on either side of anybody's fence. Also he had imagination. There would be a nice, inauditable profit on the tiger; he felt quite sure the princess would pay the bill, even though Quorn should advise her not to. And, being a rajah's purchasing agent, he knew where to shop for every kind of unconventional extravagance, from zoos to Parisian underwear. Bamjee agreed instantly, nodding as well as he could until Quorn let go of his throat.
As they drove away in the two horsed carriage it occurred to Bamjee that Quorn might prove to be the joker in destiny's pack of cards. He had played poker at Calcutta University, where Hindus like to be as debonair and devilish as anybody else. He knew how a joker upsets all calculations. He had once filled a flush with the aid of the joker and won all the other students' money.
"Mr. Quorn, I think you might be wise to trust me," he suggested.
"I'd as soon trust a snake," Quorn assured him.
"But a snake who bites one's enemies is a trustworthy accomplice," Bamjee answered. "Like you, I admire the Princess Sankyamuni, Mr. Quorn. Also, you may remember when you rode on the great elephant Asoka through the city with the princess up behind you, it was I who caused the crowd to recognize you as the Gunga Sahib."
"Yes, you've caused me a heap of trouble," Quorn retorted. "However, let's look at it this way: if you help me and hold your tongue and if we fail, nobody will know you had a hand in it, so you'll make no more enemies than you have already. If you don't help, and if we win, then your job's gone, for I'll guarantee that. But if you do help, and we win, then you can look to the princess for all the patronage you can wallow in, you durned percentage grafter."
"I wish my education had included the art of graceful speech," said Bamjee. "I have only an unpolished smattering of English. Suppose I put it this way: I will scratch your back if you will scratch mine."
"Very well," said Quorn. "I'll go you. But mark my words, I'll have the tiger scratch you good and plenty if you fail me in one particular."
BAMJEE did not mention that he, too, was a target of priestly indignation. Quorn had only perpetrated and unwittingly become a miracle. Bamjee was the man who had proclaimed him, which was worse, and the priests were sure to get him for it some day unless he looked out for himself.
So Bamjee, after depositing Quorn at the elephant lines, drove off with all his ingenuity concentrated on getting the nice tame tiger that Quorn had set his heart on. He knew of a Jain temple where they had a hospital for animals, and where there was a convalescent tiger that caused the benevolent Jains anxiety because he disliked vegetables.
The Jains refuse to kill for food or for any other reason. He could get that tiger, it occurred to him, for nothing more expensive than a promise to treat the dumb brute kindly. And he could charge for it at market price, which in the case of tigers is elastic and depends on what you want the tiger for, and how badly you want him, and how soon. Bamjee was an excellent man of business, which the Jains reputedly are not, though they can win the heart of any injured animal that is brought into their temple compound. A beautiful, milk fed tiger, reared from a cub in captivity, changed guardians that very evening, and without too much mendacity. Bamjee simply told the venerable Jains that a rajah's daughter desired the lovely creature for a pet.
And so it came to pass that Asoka, the biggest of all the elephants, fidgeted and trumpeted because he could smell tiger somewhere near him. There was a wall between them, and the tiger was locked in a cage in a shed, but the new surroundings had made the tiger restless, so he was vibrant as well as smelly, with the result that the great elephant plucked nervously at his new steel picket ring. Moreover, Quorn neglected him, and an elephant is jealous as well as nervous. Restlessness and a sense of impending trouble spread all through the elephant compound, so that the mahouts were kept busy cajoling and commanding.
Quorn, with only twelve days left in which to make a plan to outwit priests who think in terms of centuries, had a chair in front of the tiger's cage in the shed, and was trying to think.
"Dammit, a man can't dig without trying," he reflected, "but thought seems different. The more I try to think, the less thought comes!"
The tiger paced up and down behind the bars, rising on his hind legs as high as he could reach at each end before he turned. Quorn had watered him and fed him good fresh meat, but when he had gone up close to the bars afterward he had had to jump back to avoid the swift, out reaching claws. The sight of the snarling fangs had nearly paralyzed him.
"Tame!" he muttered.
According to Quorn's idea the tiger should be sleepy and contented after that good meal, but there seemed to be something wrong with the calculation. He pushed the chair away and began to pace up and down with his hands behind him; and because he was trying to think of one thing, and one thing only, every conceivable thought occurred to him except the one he wanted. He was like a drowning man, reviewing all his past life, only that it took much longer.
It was possibly an hour before he realized that he was pacing one way and the tiger the other, each turning when the other turned and each making exactly the same pause before resuming the patrol. But when he had become conscious of what was happening he kept it up, until it dawned on him that the tiger seemed to like it.
He ventured slightly closer to the cage. The tiger took no notice, so presently Quorn walked up and down so close to the bars that the great claws could have reached him through them easily. But the tiger kept on pacing up and down until Quorn grew weary of it and turned away at last. Then the tiger ceased and lay down, watching him.
"Seems what you want, you sucker, is entertainment," said Quorn, and scratched his forehead.
He went out to see how Asoka was behaving and spent a long time soothing and calming the enormous beast. The sound and smell of tiger stirred and alarmed every nerve in Asoka's being, so after a while Quorn moved him to another picket beneath a neem tree more than a hundred yards away on the far side of the compound, where he soon settled down to dusting himself and behaving reasonably.
"I think you've given me a thought," said Quorn, "you big old bag of notions. Me, I ain't no ornithologist. I don't know a tiger from dynamite, but—"
He did not dare to try to hook that thought yet. It was, so to speak, nibbling. He studied Asoka's forefeet for a while.
"They could crush a few eggs. They sure would make some omelette," he muttered. "Mebbe you could kill a tiger if he'd stand still. Mebbe."
Then he went back to the tiger, which appeared to have been sleeping. But the moment he entered the shed the tiger got to its feet and, appearing to recognize him, resumed its pacing up and down. It stopped at the end of half a dozen turns.
"WHAT'S worrying you now?" Quorn wondered. "If you'd only eat sugar, same as elephants, I'd be on the soft side of you in no time."
Hands behind him, in a brown study, he began to pace the floor. Before he had made one turn up and down the tiger was doing the same thing. He stopped when Quorn stopped. He resumed when Quorn resumed.
"Seems you're teaching me—not me you."
He decided he could learn, perhaps, and tried a few experiments. He found that when he rubbed against the bars the tiger did the same thing, like a great well fed cat who wanted stroking. But he did not dare yet to put his hand inside the cage. Instead, he set the chair close to the bars and sat down where the tiger could not quite reach him with its claws but could smell him and grow used to him. After a while the tiger lay down in a corner and went to sleep. Quorn took advantage of that to put the chair inside the cage. The tiger awoke, examined the chair suspiciously, decided that it smelt like Quorn, and went to sleep again.
So Quorn left the chair inside the cage and went out into the sunlight to consider. Did he dare? Had the tiger already decided to be friendly? It was evidently a tame tiger, who was used to being handled, and there was a mark on the hair of his neck, which suggested he might have worn a collar not so long ago.
One thought led to another. Quorn remembered having seen, at the back of the shed where they kept all the elephant harness, a collar that was much too big for any sort of dog he had ever heard of. He went and fetched it. It was a splendid collar with a strong brass buckle and an equally strong ring to which a chain or a lead could be fastened.
"Things are working out too slick, like 'rithmetic, for me to quarrel with 'em yet," he said to himself.
He recalled then that he had bought a second hand revolver in a pawnshop on the eve of venturing to foreign parts. He walked all the way home and fetched the thing. It was loaded and he hoped it would go off at the proper moment if required, although he doubted being able to get it out of his hip pocket very quickly.
"Nothing venture, nothing win," he told himself, "And what do you stand to lose, Ben Quorn? Only your life, and you're bound to lose that sometime. Getting chewed by a tiger won't hurt worse than being seasick."
He returned to the shed and, summoning every last ounce of courage, slipped quietly into the cage while the tiger was lying in a corner, not asleep but licking himself lazily. Quorn sat on the chair, listening to his own heart beats.
It was several minutes before the tiger strolled over to investigate. He sniffed, assured himself that the smell of the man on the chair was the smell that he knew, and began to pace up and down before the bars. Quorn sat still, simply paralyzed with fear. Two or three times the tiger came quite close to him—once actually brushing against his legs in passing. Two or three more turns up and down the cage, and then the incredible happened. The tiger came and lay at Quorn's feet, sprawling with his legs in the air, as if inviting Quorn to scratch his stomach. The tiger lay head toward him, tail toward the bars.
Courage is relative. Quorn was a man to whom an altercation with a traffic cop had been a desperate adventure until he left the United States. If he had really known how dangerous a tiger is he might have leaped out of the cage that minute, while he had the chance. It was surely something more than courage—perhaps sheer luck and ignorance that made him rub the tiger's ears. But it was courage and nerve and almost nothing else that enabled him to slip that heavy collar around the tiger's neck and buckle it. Then fear took hold of him again. He had not the remotest notion what to do next, so he sat still. And the tiger lay still, with his great gleaming fangs within six inches of Quorn's legs, and every inch of Quorn's skin tingling every time the tiger breathed.
That strain was too great. Quorn pulled out the revolver, intending to make his escape and to shoot if he had to. The tiger rolled over and raised himself, staring at Quorn's face as if wondering whether or not to kill and eat him. And then, unable to endure fear any longer, Quorn did the craziest thing he had ever done in all his life—even crazier than throwing up a good job taxi driving in Philadelphia.
"Here, pussy!" he said, "pretty pussy! Nice puss!" And he tossed the revolver into the farther corner of the cage.
THE tiger leaped after it. Quorn leaped for the door and slipped out, bathed in sweat. The tiger played all over the cage with the revolver, as a cat plays with a mouse, until the weapon slipped out under the horizontal bottom bar and Quorn picked it up.
"Why, durn it," he muttered. "I may be born with a gift o' training tigers." That thought brought awakening self esteem. It stirred the imagination.
Presently came Bamjee to inquire whether or not the tiger was up to specifications. By that time something new, strategic and dynamic was aroused in Quorn. He was no longer the bewildered taxi driver. He had emerged into Machiavelli's class, alert and bending every intellectual resource toward an end in view.
"He already eats out o' my hand," he answered. "And so do you unless you want your head broke. Go you to the palace and get some clothes belonging to the princess. Bring 'em here. Act secret. And remember to lie like hell to any one who asks questions. Make it snappy now."
That evening Quorn draped the chair inside the cage with dawn hued clothing that was perfumed with scent so subtle that it suggested a palace roof, a muted instrument beneath the stars, and a song sung to a sweetheart. It was strange bait for a tiger, but the tiger soon grew used to it and after a while seemed even to like it. And the following afternoon Quorn had the princess herself in the cage. The tiger recognized the scent and behaved admirably. The only difficulty was that the princess was utterly fearless and wanted to take too many chances.
"Why, look!" she exclaimed suddenly. "This is the tiger who used to pull the two wheeled cart in the durbar processions. He was so tame that he let a frightened horse kick him. And he was hurt so badly that they gave him to the Jains. Quick, give me a whip! I'll show you how he jumps over a person's head."
Quorn almost sulked. Gone was the glory of having tamed a ferocious monster! But the sight of the princess holding the brute by the collar excited his admiration for her at any rate and again set imagination working. So far he had only the ingredients for a miracle. Next he had to set the stage, and then to turn the trick. When he had persuaded her at last to come out of the cage he suggested a plan to the princess; and she was so delighted with it that her eyes became azure pools of laughter and she said that if Quorn were not verily Gunga Sahib, then the gods must have made two of them and lost the other one.
"I am only sorry I agreed to wait thirteen days," she objected.
But Quorn needed every hour of all those days to make his preparations. The princess was brave and impatient and merry, but no good whatever at details, so Quorn had to think of everything— with the aid of Bamjee, who undertook to do the necessary propaganda. Quorn's blood was up. He was not only eager to risk everything for the Princess Sankyamuni's sake, he was blazing mad, indignant with the priests, with the rajah, and with the entire population of Narada because it was willing to let the princess run that awful risk.
"Don't you give those priests a chance to back down!" he instructed Bamjee. "They've got to take a licking, or we're out—one way or the other, and no alibi! You keep the crowd so pepped up that the priests won't dare to call it off!"
IT was the rajah who grew frightened as the day drew near. It occurred to him that he stood to lose whichever way the tiger jumped. Public opinion, that was now excitedly in favor of the ceremony, would undoubtedly condemn him afterward, even though the incredible should happen and the princess should come through the ordeal successfully. He would be regarded as a heartless parent; and because he was exactly that, it was the one thing that he wished not to be called. He tried to bargain with the priests, offering them all sorts of concessions if they would dig up another legend, or come out into the open with another contradictory prophecy that would serve as an excuse to cancel the proceedings.
But the priests were in no position to oblige him. What they hoped was, that the rajah would forbid the ordeal, thus forcing the princess back into seclusion and leaving the priests more influential than ever. But the rajah knew that if he should do that, not only would the priests have triumphed, which would be galling, but the crowd would blame him for the disappointment.
He consulted Quorn, while Quorn was sitting on Asoka's forefoot with mallet and chisel, trimming Asoka's toe nails. "Can you tame that tiger, Mr. Quorn?" "Haven't seen the crittur yet, your Highness."
"It's an enormous one and venomously savage."
"Priests won't let me see him, sir. I'd like some sort of pass that 'ud take me into the courtyard where they've got him caged."
"Do you propose to—er—er, dope him?"
"No, sir." Shade of Machiavelli! Quorn saw suddenly how to fit the last piece into the puzzle. He went on chiseling Asoka's forefoot.
"I'm afraid the priests might dope him, sir. Can't do nothing with a tiger that's been doped. He's undependable."
"You mean, then, you can manage the brute?"
"If I'm let. But I don't trust them priests. I'd like that tiger watched. I'd like leave for Bamjee and my man Moses to spell each other keeping tabs on him from outside the cage. As many priests as like can watch them. I'd like the people of Narada to know that the tiger is being watched so there'll be no hocus-pocus. This here is going to be a big league miracle."
"If I were sure—"
"You seen me tame this elephant," Quorn answered, getting off Asoka's forefoot. "Up you get, two tails! Give his Highness your college yell. Salute him good."
Asoka threw his trunk in air, screamed, and thumped his forefoot in the dust. The rajah spun a coin in the air.
"Heads!" he exclaimed. "Heads it is. Very well, Mr. Quorn, Bamjee and Moses shall watch the tiger and you may go in to see him as often as you please. I will arrange that with the priests."
The tiger turned out to be worse than Quorn anticipated. He was in a big cage half hidden by creepers that climbed on the masonry in a corner of the temple courtyard, close to where a flight of ancient steps led up beside a high wall toward upper levels from which the bridge led toward the farther temple—that of Siva. This being the temple of Kali, the Bride of Siva, all the carvings were of skulls and snakes and other dreadful symbols of the universal principle of death.
But there was nothing there more dreadful than the brute that lurked behind those bars. Some animals are maniacs. When Quorn approached the tiger sprang and tried to tear the bars apart, wrenching at them with teeth and claws—a mad, magnificent striped devil that would kill for the love of killing. He was a pet well chosen for the Goddess of Destruction.
THE priests watched Quorn to make sure that he threw no poisoned or drugged meat between the bars. They were amused when shown the rajah's order permitting Bamjee and Moses to keep watch in turns lest the tiger should be interfered with. One of the priests, too proud to speak to Quorn except through an interpreter, said:
"Doubtless your gods have told you how to tame that animal, as undoubtedly they told you how to tame the elephant. We will all be here to see you do it."
But the sarcasm escaped Quorn. He was far too interested in the cage.
There were two doors—one at the side, beneath an arch, made fast with a padlock bigger than a man's fist, and the other was in front. Ten of the bars formed part of it, and it was fastened with a bolt that led into the masonry above. There was a hole in the bolt through which a wooden peg passed. If the peg was pulled out, the bolt would drop by its own weight and the barred door would fall forward. That peg, however, was high out of reach.
"But ain't that like a priest to fasten one door with a padlock and the other with a peg!" Quorn muttered.
"This door, this other one under the arch, is that through which the princess must enter to bring the tiger forth," a priest explained. "We have the key. We will unlock it for her." Quorn nodded.
Outside in the street, when he was sure that no one overheard, he instructed Bamjee:
"Get some sewing machine oil and a spool of good stout cobbler's thread. First chance you get, oil the hinges o' that front door of the cage, and mind you, oil 'em proper, but don't let anybody see you."
That night Quorn returned to the temple with a peg in his pocket. He pretended he wished to make sure that Bamjee was awake, but he took the spool of thread from Bamjee, tested its strength, and tied one end of it firmly to the peg. Then he walked up close to the cage. The tiger snarled and leaped against the bars. Quorn studied the bars and insisted that the peg at the top that fastened them, was loose. It was dark. Nobody could really see. After a lot of argument a priest agreed to bring a ladder and to let Quorn examine the peg. Quorn carefully replaced it with the other. On his way down he concealed the thread among the creepers, tucking away the spool into a crack in the masonry behind some leaves, where it could easily be reached by anybody standing on the ground. And whoever should pull that would pull out the peg, which would let the bars fall and release the tiger.
On the following day, in the elephant lines, he astonished the mahouts by drilling Bamjee in the art of throwing a certain weight a certain distance in the air.
"Remember now," he said, "I ain't no Babe Ruth and I'll be sitting on an earthquake. So take your time and aim careful. Try to hit me on the nose and make sure the bouquet don't hold any bricks."
And then, one moonlight night, rehearsal at the back of the elephant lines with the aid of four palace servants whom Quorn and Bamjee had decided they could trust—a coachman and three footmen. The princess was so excited and full of laughter that it was difficult to keep her mind on anything. Quorn had to speak to her almost sternly before he felt sure she knew her part.
"If we slip up, miss, we're done for. We've got to do this letter perfect. Now remember, you've a right to have ladies with you, and they've a right not to be seen in public, so in case anybody asks you, the carriage what comes behind you has some six, seven, eight o' your ladies in it. Nobody'll know you're prevaricating if only our tiger keeps quiet, and we'll have to trust to luck for that—luck and a fair to middling solid meal. There'll be two men up behind, and one up beside the driver, to make sure nobody peeks through the shutters. That part's up to you. You've got to send word to the priests that you're coming with a carriage full of purdah ladies; and if the priests raise any kick about it we'll have Bamjee do some propaganding so's the crowd'll shame 'em into letting the carriage go through the temple gate behind us. Now are you sure you've got that? Good. Then come on. Let me see you lead this tame pussy of ours into that carriage and feed him some scraps in there. Then lead him back into his cage and feed him a fine big belly full o' fresh meat what'll make him remember he had it. We've got to get him used to the idea that a carriage ride means something good now and lots more later on."
To lead even a tame tiger in the dark is no sinecure. It is very different from leading the same animal in daylight. But a man went ahead, trailing a piece of meat along the ground. Quorn had an extra, loose line passed through the ring in the tiger's collar. Two men kept near with a net in case of accident. And all went well.
"The gods are with us," said the princess.
"Give the gods a back seat," Quorn retorted. "One more rehearsal tomorrow night, then me and you'll make a big league miracle or bust! It's lucky for us that the sun will be shining in his eyes and make this striped puss blind and lazy. That way, when you lead him along the parapet you'll be able to move reasonable slow and dignified."
THERE was no law against crossing that ancient bridge. It was not closed, but deserted because men were superstitious. Quorn sent Moses with a piece of meat to be drawn at the end of a string along the full length of the yard wide parapet and leave its stench above the heads of the gods and goddesses on whose shoulders the doves cooed all day long. And Asoka spent the last night at his own picket, chained by both hind feet instead of only one, fidgeting and needing to be coaxed at intervals because he could smell and hear tiger just beyond the compound wall. All through the quiet night he plucked at the bright steel ankle rings.
At last the great day dawned and all Narada kept gay holiday. The streets were thronged from early morning with crowds on whose lips were the names of Gunga Sahib and the Princess Sankyamuni. There was no doubt. Nobody believed that such an ancient, thoroughly authenticated prophecy would not come true. Had not they all not long ago seen the Gunga Sahib tame the furious Asoka and bring back the Princess Sankyamuni, radiantly lovely, riding on him through the city streets?
They had seen it with their own eyes. So indubitably she would tame the tiger now in Kali's temple, and would lead him across the bridge as prophesied—especially, of course, because it was no secret that the Gunga Sahib was to take her to the temple on that self same elephant Asoka, who had had part in the former miracle. The thing was fore-destined.
There was nothing to do but wait, and watch, and be hot and excited, and lose the children in the crowd, and be good tempered and merry and behold how true the legends were.
"Bande Sankyamuni! Bande Gunga Sahib!"
The sweetmeat sellers and the sticky pink lemonade sellers did a roaring business. And the rajah, in the palace garden, chewed his finger nails, until he decided at last that the only sensible course for him was to take to his bed and pretend to be ill, so that nobody might blame him for whatever happened.
Asoka's nerves were so upset by the smell of tiger near his picket that Quorn had a hard time to get him polished up and harnessed with the silver plated howdah.
But it was accomplished at last, and then Quorn made a caste mark on his own forehead with the aid of a carmine lip stick borrowed from the princess. He put on a turban that Bamjee had given him, and wore a long, white cotton Indian shirt. He was a modest man and not even deadly danger could induce him to abandon trousers, so he looked like a medley of East and West when he mounted Asoka's neck and stuck his knees under the enormous ears, with a chief mahout's jeweled ankus in his hand.
But no native of Narada could possibly have mistaken him for anybody other than the Gunga Sahib, whose features, a thousand years ago, were carved in limestone on the end wall of the market place. Undoubtedly, the gods had sent him back into the world to help to fulfill the ancient prophecies.
A very large shuttered carriage, drawn by four horses that had been broken to elephant and every other kind of animal that one may meet in Indian streets, with two men on the driver's seat and two fierce looking, whiskered attendants standing on the little platform at the rear, followed Asoka into the palace grounds, where a screen was drawn, so that none might see the ladies as they stepped into the carriage. But numbers of impudent rascals, hidden amid the shrubbery, beheld the princess come forth from the palace, radiant and unveiled, to climb into the howdah by a ladder. And there were several of those who said afterward that no ladies followed her and none got into the carriage. Nevertheless, they said they heard strange noises coming through the shutters—noises that ceased unaccountably when somebody threw in what appeared to be meat.
But why should any one believe such nonsense? Did the crowd not see the shuttered carriage, with their own eyes, following Asoka through the streets? Everybody knew that a shuttered carriage is intended to hold purdah ladies. And if there were no ladies, why the fierce looking attendants scowling to the crowd to keep its distance?
ASOKA behaved magnificently in spite of that tiger smell that had so upset him. He was always manner perfect when he bore that silver howdah and had Quorn's knees under his ears. He was a beast of monumental dignity, who could sense a dramatic moment and live up to it, so the procession through the colorful, tree lined streets was solemn and as satisfying as even Narada, almost sated with splendid processions, could have wished. They had to pass through the midst of the enormous throng that packed the Pul-ke-nichi and swarmed on roofs and walls, whence they could see the parapet of the ancient bridge. It was along that parapet that legend said a princess had once led a tiger. Everybody, except the temple priests, implicitly believed that miracle was now about to be repeated. Had the priests not said it should be? And here was the Princess Sankyamuni, unveiled, lovelier than legend, riding on the very maharajah of all elephants, in a silver howdah, behind the Gunga Sahib with the he-goat's eyes. Anybody who might think there was not going to be a miracle was absolutely crazy.
The crowd roared encouragement until the limestone walls re-echoed and the narrow Pul-ke-nichi became a river of splendid sound. But Asoka began rumbling ominously. He smelt tiger again. As they made the turn into the temple courtyard gateway there were some who noticed that Asoka was beginning to be almost out of hand. There might have been a panic if the great wooden gate had not opened so swiftly, and closed again so swiftly behind the four horsed, shuttered carriage. There was silence then—an eager, breathless silence of anticipation as the entire crowd stared into the sun toward the parapet.
Asoka swung into the temple courtyard at a great pace, rumbling and swaying his trunk from side to side so ominously that a crowd of priests made way for him, forgetting dignity and taking refuge behind columns. There was almost a stampede. Even the chief priest had to step aside.
He had taken his stand in full regalia before the tiger's cage, expecting to see the princess swoon at the sight of the dreadful brute. As a piece of exquisite sarcasm he had ordered a strip of carpet laid on the flight of stone steps, up which the princess was to lead the tiger in order to reach the bridge. But he was all ready with scornful words, at the first sign of her shrinking to order her home again and into life long purdah.
He had a speech ready, too, for the crowd outside, that should send them home with something else than miracles on which to meditate.
Asoka upset calculations by behaving like a bull just loosed in the arena, turning this way and that—for a victim. He could not endure that smell of tiger. It was scandalous. It aroused every fighting nerve in the whole five tons of him. And as he approached the cage the tiger leaped up at the iron bars, snarling with all the passionate fear and hatred that a tiger feels for an elephant. Asoka screamed. He trembled like a boiler before it explodes. But he paused for one second with his trunk held rigid and a forefoot raised in air, because he heard Quorn's quiet voice. And in that second Bamjee, crouching in the shadow of an arch, threw a bouquet of flowers, which Quorn caught. Nobody saw the dark, thin, strong thread tied to it. Quorn passed the flowers to the princess, jerked at the thread, and the peg dropped out that held the bolt that fastened the front of the tiger's cage. Ten bars fell forward with a crash. And like a flash of lightning out leaped the tiger, loose among priests in the temple courtyard.
There was pandemonium. Asoka thought he knew now what Quorn's voice had meant. He screamed again. The four horses went crazy and had to be loosed to prevent them from dragging the carriage all over the courtyard and upsetting it. A resourceful footman cut the traces. The horses galloped among the priests and scattered them. Asoka's little angry eyes blazed red and there began such a tiger hunt as only monkeys see in jungles when tiger has challenged elephant and there is a war to the death between them. Only now a silver howdah instead of a hunting saddle swayed and shook on Asoka's back—the fleeing animals were terror stricken priests—the trees were courtyard columns—and there was a quiet voiced man directing the terrific battle.
"Take your time, you sucker, or you'll scrape us off under the archway! Easy now, easy! What's your bean for? Use it! You've got to corner him first—you can't crush all out doors! You ain't no polo pony—save yourself a bit. There— now you've got him! Give her the gas now! Fire when you're ready, Gridley!"
BOTH sides fired together. The tiger had taken refuge down a short arched passageway that was closed by a door at the farther end. Asoka charged into the passage. The tiger leaped at the flailing trunk, that just escaped his claws, and landed on the broad head, snarling, his fangs gleaming within two feet of Quorn's face, his baleful eyes blazing in gloom as he struggled for foothold. The hollow arch rang with the battle, and then with thunder, as Asoka crashed into the great teak door at the end of the passage and crushed the tiger, shook him off—trampled—trod him into crimson pulp.
"There—there's a bully boy—king of elephants," said Quorn, examining the enormous head to see what damage the tiger's claws had done.
It was nothing much—nothing that could not be healed with washing, and lint and tape. He turned to the princess.
"Now, miss, do your stuff and make it snappy. Slide down by his tail while I keep him headed this way. He'll go crazy again—he'll spoil everything if he sees that other tiger."
He encouraged Asoka to knead his victim's carcass into red mash while the princess threw down over his rump a rope that had been tied fast to the howdah. With the aid of that and his tail, she reached the paving stones. She ran then—ran to the shuttered carriage, and while the four men held the horses she led out a big, sleek, sleepy tiger who had only had half his dinner and knew he would get the other half if he walked a little way beside this person with the vague, delicious scent on her gauzy garments. She had fed him twice thus, why not now, a third time?
One priest lost a lawn shirt, because Quorn tore it off him to dip in water and staunch Asoka's scratches, praising his charge the while and calling him pearl of elephants. Some of the priests had taken refuge in the chambers that gave on the cloistered courtyard. The others, including the chief priest, saw the princess lead her tiger up the ancient stairway, and saw Bamjee follow at a good safe distance, carrying a sack containing meat. And presently, from outside, from the street and from the roofs and walls, they heard the thunder of a crowd's voice welcoming a miracle and praising Mother Nature because the ancient tales were true. The crowd made such a noise as should have brought the sky down.
Those priests of Kali knew the meaning of defeat. They had presence of mind. They might still prevent disaster to themselves by snatching unmerited prestige. They urged their chief priest to ascend the stairs to the bridge, mount the parapet and give the multitude his blessing. Perhaps he was grateful that his temple tiger had not killed him and a few of his attendants. At any rate, he blessed the people beautifully; and that, of course, was accepted as official recognition of the miracle.
If anyone should tell the people ever any more, amen, that there are no such things as miracles they would stone him with stones from the dirtiest part of the street, and serve him right, the infidel.
Quorn calmed Asoka, patched him, hid the patches under an embroidered cloth that he took from a priest, and that made Asoka's ponderous head look more dignified than ever. Then he helped catch the terrified horses and sent the empty shuttered carriage home by quiet by-streets; after which he mounted Asoka again and rode him down the crowded Pul-ke-nichi to the courtyard entrance of the farther temple, receiving on his way such an ovation as surely even Akbar never had.
The crowd brought out bands and banners. And when the princess came forth presently, surrounded by Siva's priests, who pretended they were glad to have received the tiger and to have seen a prophecy fulfilled, and by Bamjee, who was smiling all over his face and rubbing his hands surreptitiously to get the smell of meat off them, there was such a glorious uproar as would have graced a baseball game.
Asoka knelt. The princess, now for evermore unveiled and rapturously lovely, stepped into the howdah. Bamjee borrowed a horse and made haste to the palace to inform the rajah what had happened. The bands struck up, the streets reverberated to the din of jubilee, and a glorious procession flowed all through the city until it reached the palace gate, where the rajah, roused out of his bed, had to stand surrounded by his courtiers and greet with a royal smile his only daughter, heiress to his throne, who was henceforth free to choose a husband for herself, and ever to powder her nose in public if she wished.
THE rajah knew how to be gracious when there was no way out of it. He gave Asoka two whole pounds of sugar. And when Quorn got home that night to eat the goat chops prepared by Moses, he found a box of the rajah's fifty-cent Perfectos waiting for him. He bit off the end of one and lit it. He gave one to Moses. Then he looked at himself in the mirror and thought of the taxicab he used to drive. He grinned. He nodded.
"Yes," he said, "it was a big league miracle all right."