“You little fool!” exclaimed her mother, “that was for the elephant. Tigers don’t eat buns!” But they do under some conditions. My tiger’s appetite was keen. I ate that bun, and I even regretted the dead horse before closing time. That night I found myself driven into a small sleeping-den--alone I was thankful to see--and when silence fell I put my paws over my head and tried to grasp the situation. Here was I--a reasonable human soul--chained in this awful living prison. I might have been back in Bengal too for all the use my fellow-creatures could be. Then a grey rat hopped into my den. It came fearlessly up, cocked its whiskers and spoke. Needless to say that this rat was Robinson, or rather Robinson’s astral embodiment. “Well,” he asked, “how do you find yourself? Variety is charming, eh? But you’re a poor thing in tigers.” I put my paw on him. “Now,” I said, “restore me instantly, or I’ll crush you.” “No,” answered Robinson, “you won’t; you’ll crush a grey rat--that’s all. You can’t touch me, any more than they’d hurt you if they shot this tiger. You may like to hear the news. We’ve taken your carcase back to your diggings. Several doctors have examined you, and they are divided in their opinions. Some say you are dead; others fancy it is a case of trance. Primrose went down and wept over you, and kissed your pallid cheek. She says it doesn’t matter now who knows her secret passion, as you have gone. A devoted woman, Tarver!” Nothing annoyed me more on that terrible day than the mental spectacle of Primrose Robinson dropping tears on me and fussing about my bachelor rooms. “I suppose you’ll marry her all right now?” asked Robinson. “I won’t,” I answered. “I defy you and your devilish accomplishments. Providence isn’t going to let this outrage go on for ever. Something will be sure to happen, and the moment I’m restored I’ll summon you, if it costs me every farthing I’ve got in the world.” “The only thing that can happen,” said Robinson, “is this: I shall hurry you on. There are worse tenements than tigers. You’ll have to give in; it’s only a question of time. You’ll go to sleep presently and when you wake you’ll find yourself the adjutant stork. He happens to be moulting just now, too--a sight for the gods, my boy! I’ll look you up again in the course of a day or two. Till then, ta-ta, Tarver.” He was gone with a whisk of his tail, and despite the bold front I had put on before him, I broke down, shed bitter tears, and I suppose finally went to sleep on my sawdust.