I got up in the morning feeling that I knew Africa through and through. But when I looked out of the bedroom window the illusion was dispelled immediately. I saw the garden in all its spring glory--the daffodils and tulips, the plum blossoms, the green carpet of the lawn sprinkled with white daisies, and then--Gran'pa, walking and talking very earnestly in the sunshine with a little, ferocious-looking man in a coat with a fur collar. I watched them curiously, until they disappeared round the bend of the path, and then I commenced dressing. When I arrived downstairs Gran'pa and his companion were in the dining-room chattering away like a couple of sparrows. "Ah, George!" cried Gran'pa. "I quite forgot to tell you about Mr. Stringer. He's come down from Scotland by the night train. I wrote and asked him to make straight for Airesdale Avenue the moment he arrived, and have breakfast with us. I wanted you to see him before you went to town this morning. We're spending the day at the Zoo, and then going on to Bristol this evening to see Boswell's Menagerie there." I extended my hand towards Mr. Stringer, wondering what on earth it was all about, and, as his fingers closed on mine and our eyes met, a peculiar thrill seemed to travel up my arm and backbone, culminating in a sudden tremor in the base of my skull. When he dropped my hand, however, he still kept his eyes fixed on me for a second or two. Never in all my life had I felt such a burning, penetrating gaze. It reached out like a ray of light, half-dazzled me, and probed into every nook and corner of my brain. Suddenly, that unearthly sensation of being a frozen microbe under a microscope was gone again, and I felt the blood come pumping back into my ears--_thud!_ . . . _thud!_ . . . "_You_ noticed it, George?" cried Gran'pa. "I . . . er . . . certainly . . . noticed something," I stammered. "Good! Mr. Stringer possesses one of the least known but most potent forces in nature. He calls himself a hypnotist and mental healer, but I prefer the older term, Animal Magnetism. I have great hopes of Mr. Stringer--when we reach Africa. . . ." CHAPTER VIII WE SET OUT FOR BRISTOL I looked at this man Stringer more closely, and was surprised to find that he had now assumed a more normal and human appearance. It was as if our initial handshake had liberated some hidden fountain of fiendishness in him, and now that it was all over we were quite good friends again.