He had a dreamy， far-away look in his eyes， and hissad， insistent voice， gentle-spoken as a maid’s， seemedthe placid embodiment of some deep-seated melancholy.
He was the Leopard Man， but he did not look it. Hisbusiness in life， whereby he lived， was to appear in a cageof performing leopards before vast audiences， and to thrillthose audiences by certain exhibitions of nerve for whichhis employers rewarded him on a scale commensuratewith the thrills he produced.
As I say， he did not look it. He was narrow-hipped，narrow-shouldered， and anaemic， while he seemed notso much oppressed by gloom as by a sweet and gentlesadness， the weight of which was as sweetly and gentlyborne. For an hour I had been trying to get a story out ofhim， but he appeared to lack imagination. To him therewas no romance in his gorgeous career， no deeds of daring，no thrills—nothing but a gray sameness and infiniteboredom.
Lions？ Oh， yes！ he had fought with them. It was nothing.
All you had to do was to stay sober. Anybody could whipa lion to a standstill with an ordinary stick. He had foughtone for half an hour once. Just hit him on the nose everytime he rushed， and when he got artful and rushed withhis head down， why， the thing to do was to stick out yourleg. When he grabbed at the leg you drew it back and hithint on the nose again. That was all.
With the far-away look in his eyes and his soft flowof words he showed me his scars. There were many ofthem， and one recent one where a tigress had reachedfor his shoulder and gone down to the bone. I could seethe neatly mended rents in the coat he had on. His rightarm， from the elbow down， looked as though it had gonethrough a threshing machine， what of the ravage wroughtby claws and fangs. But it was nothing， he said， only theold wounds bothered him somewhat when rainy weathercame on.
Suddenly his face brightened with a recollection， for hewas really as anxious to give me a story as I was to get it.
“I suppose you’ve heard of the lion-tamer who was hatedby another man？” he asked.
He paused and looked pensively at a sick lion in the cageopposite.
“Got the toothache，” he explained. “Well， the liontamer’sbig play to the audience was putting his head ina lion’s mouth. The man who hated him attended everyperformance in the hope sometime of seeing that lioncrunch down. He followed the show about all over thecountry. The years went by and he grew old， and the liontamergrew old， and the lion grew old. And at last one day，sitting in a front seat， he saw what he had waited for. Thelion crunched down， and there wasn’t any need to call adoctor.”
The Leopard Man glanced casually over his finger nailsin a manner which would have been critical had it notbeen so sad.
“Now， that’s what I call patience，” he continued， “andit’s my style. But it was not the style of a fellow I knew. Hewas a little， thin， sawed-off， sword-swallowing and jugglingFrenchman. De Ville， he called himself， and he had a nicewife. She did trapeze work and used to dive from underthe roof into a net， turning over once on the way as nice asyou please.
“De Ville had a quick temper， as quick as his hand， and hishand was as quick as the paw of a tiger. One day， becausethe ring-master called him a frog-eater， or something likethat and maybe a little worse， he shoved him against thesoft pine background he used in his knife-throwing act， soquick the ring-master didn’t have time to think， and there，before the audience， De Ville kept the air on fire with hisknives， sinking them into the wood all around the ringmasterso close that they passed through his clothes andmost of them bit into his skin.
“The clowns had to pull the knives out to get him loose，for he was pinned fast. So the word went around to watchout for De Ville， and no one dared be more than barelycivil to his wife. And she was a sly bit of baggage， too， onlyall hands were afraid of De Ville.
