Page:McClure's Magazine volume 10.djvu/475

for life. She seemed too much dazed at my impudence to resent it; but the incident made such an impression on my nerves that, a few minutes later, when a pelican reached out in the darkness and nipped me on the leg, I almost fainted from fright. The opportune break of a wave over the cages on deck sent an icy shower down into the hold, drenching both Mr. Linson and myself, and so brought speedy recovery; but it ruined a very clever sketch of Nellie that the artist had nearly finished.

On a Monday we went down to see them feed the wild animals. Those of the cat kind are never fed on Sunday; that is how they know it is Sunday. Nobody seems to know who invented this custom; its beginning falls in that dim time whereof "the memory of man runneth not to the contrary."

The mere smell of the meat, as it is lowered into the hold, drives the animals crazy this morning. It is chopped up on a cutting table, between the cages, by a stalwart keeper in a butcher's apron. The ship rolls and pitches to an extent that makes an unsupported footing precarious. The ears are assailed by a combination of sounds: the roar of the raging sea is drowned by the bellowing of the king of beasts, the snapping and snarling of the pumas, the impatient growl of the Bengal tiger. And now and then, from out the darkness forward, comes the unearthly shriek of the hyenas, sinking all the rest. The darkness, the flashing eyes, the pent-up uncertainty, the creaking of ship's timbers, the low moans that rise to a human whine and explode in wild, hysterical laughter—no madhouse could inspire such terrors. Under the dim light of a lantern, two men go from cage to cage. One brandishes an iron bar, while the other quickly thrusts a chunk of meat beneath the foot-board. Then follows the flash of two lightning paws, and then a low growl or a loud purr of content as the morsel is crunched between the powerful jaws.

Poor Johanna! Johanna is the famous gorilla. A lantern swings in front of her cage, just forward of the lion's noisy den. By its fitful gleams, I saw her leaning disconsolately in a corner. She had been very sea-sick. On our second day out, her indefatigable keeper, McKay, gave her hot lemonade and occasionally a stiff snifter of whisky, and ran back and forth between her cage and the cook's galley, bringing dainties of fruit and chicken, and hot broths and the like. No royal sea-sick lady could have been more ardently served in her distress.