Hardly were the words out of my mouth when Robinson, looking round to see that nobody was within earshot, made use of a word of some twelve syllables, which I had never heard before. A second afterwards I found myself, to my horror, inside the bars of the Bengal tiger’s house. This was not all. Looking round wildly, I observed that the tiger had disappeared, and, on raising my voice to cry for help, a hideous roar thundered through the building, but no human sound left my lips. Then I realised what had happened. _I was the tiger!_ Robinson had transferred my _ego_ into this brute beast. I, Thomas Tarver, found my immortal soul shut up within the frame of the most savage monster an inscrutable Providence ever designed. I looked out of its eyes; I strode here and there; I lifted giant paws, and, raising myself on my hind legs, gazed through my bars at Robinson. He was sitting where I had left him, and there opposite, limp in its chair, looking more like a respectably dressed Guy Fawkes than anything, reposed my mortal shell. “For God’s sake come here!” I said; but only a tigerish whimper sounded through the den. However, Robinson understood it and stepped to the bar. “You do look a fool!” he remarked. Then he explained the fiendish thing he had done. “You see, a tiger doesn’t run a soul, Tarver, so I’ve just drawn yours out of your wretched carcase and popped it into this creature. Now, for all practical purposes you’re a Bengal tiger, and you’ll have to remain one until you grow reasonable. I rather fancy you’ll be fed at four.” If I could have got out at that moment, Mahatma or no Mahatma, Robinson would have had a painful experience. I was, honestly, as angry as a man or beast can be. I spoke hotly. I said things I should not have said under any other conditions. Robinson understood me, but other visitors saw nothing but a big tiger in a raging temper. Presently my poor shell fell off its chair, and a crowd collected and Robinson explained to the people that my heart was weak. Then I saw myself carried away under the direction of the demon who had called himself my friend. Nobody paid any attention to me myself. I was left with nothing to do for twenty-four hours but reflect upon my position and eat a piece of dead horse. Why I did not go mad I shall never understand. Presently a tigress came out of the inner den, and I felt myself trembling in every limb. She took little notice of me, but finding I made no effort to eat my dinner, consumed it herself when my back was turned. Heaven only knows what she thought had happened to me. But she left me alone, for which I thanked her. I walked up and down for long, weary hours; I tried to speak to the keepers; I impressed several spectators with my hopeless appearance. The infant mind often sees deeper than an adult intelligence, and a little girl it was who read my anguish in my eyes. “What a poor, dear, unhappy old tiger!” she said, and flung me a currant bun.