When Joe Tennison called to him, the Caracal passed by without giving him a glance, and it was just the same with his friend too, for when Cromartie heard the negro begin talking to him he just nodded his head and went into his inner room. But once there Mr. Cromartie reflected that this negro was to be his companion and neighbour for some years, and it would never do to run away from him every time he spoke. Somehow he must make Tennison respect his privacy without making an enemy of him, and at that moment Mr. Cromartie saw no way of doing this. However, he took down a book of Waley’s poems translated from the Chinese, and went back into his cage with it in his hand, and then sat down and began reading. He lives in thick forests, deep among the hills, Or houses in the clefts of sharp, precipitous rocks; Alert and agile is his nature, nimble are his wits; Swift are his contortions, Apt to every need, Whether he climbs tall tree-stems of a hundred feet, Or sways on the shuddering shoulder of a long bough. Before him, the dark gullies of unfathomable streams; Behind, the silent hollows of the lonely hills. Twigs and tendrils are his rocking-chairs, On rungs of rotting wood he trips Up perilous places; sometimes, leap after leap, Like lightning flits through the woods. Sometimes he saunters with a sad, forsaken air; Then suddenly peeps round Beaming with satisfaction. Up he springs, Leaps and prances, whoops and scampers on his way. Up cliffs he scrambles, up pointed rocks, Dances on shale that shifts or twigs that snap, Suddenly swerves and lightly passes.... Oh, what tongue could unravel The tale of all his tricks? Alas, one trait With the human tribe he shares; their sweets his sweet, Their bitter is his bitter. Off sugar from the vat Of brewers’ dregs he loves to sup. So men put wine where he will pass. How he races to the bowl! How nimbly licks and swills! Now he staggers, feels dazed and foolish, Darkness falls upon his eyes.... He sleeps and knows no more. Up steal the trappers, catch him by the mane, Then to a string or ribbon tie him, lead him home; Tether him in the stable or lock him in the yard; Where faces all day long Gaze, gape, gasp at him and will not go away. Joe Tennison came up three or four times while he was reading and began a conversation, but Cromartie ignored his remarks and did not even lift his head, but just read quietly on. Fortunately there were a great many of the public come to see their old favourite Mr. Cromartie now he was back, and to have a look at the new black man also, about whom there was nearly as much discussion as there ever had been about Cromartie himself.