thing cold crawled up his spine. The big, still beast held terrible possibilities.
"He didn't kill him, did he?"
"No. Nearly, though. Dad got him cheap 'cause of that: they couldn't get another tamer to train him. Our man could, though," she added proudly. "Pazo could train any cat that ever was."
"He's got a funny name."
"Pazo? Oh, it's not his true name. He's a Spaniard, and his real name's too hard for any one to say. He's an awful man. One of the tent-hands called him 'Dago,' and he hit him, and they did have a fight! I liked it. But Mummy wouldn't let me stay," she finished sadly. "Mummy's funny about things. Anyhow, I peeked out of the window—only Daddy came an' stopped them." She sighed, pondering on the strange ways of parents.
"Where's he now?" asked Hugh, curious to see the "awful" man.
"Pazo? Oh, he's asleep somewhere. He's like the cats— he can just lie down on the ground an' go to sleep, as comfortable as if he was in bed. Says he learned it from the cats. Doesn't make a hole for his hip, or anything. Want to see me make Nabob look at us?" She twirled on one foot.
"Rather!" said Hugh. "But he didn't."
"Oh, that wasn't it. He wouldn't look for that, not if I twirl all day. But you just watch."
She gave a low clear whistle, ending with a little trill. The lion stirred not a muscle. But his great yellow eyes