As the three of us tugged and strained we heard the wood splinter and give a little, and with a moan of anguish the imprisoned man collapsed. But there was still no sign of capitulation on the part of the gorilla. It held on firmly and stoically and resolutely--the embodiment of inexorable revenge. Above the fierce pounding of my heart, I heard the sound of running footsteps on the soft turf and, an eternity later, two men arrived. "Grab it--and pull!" cried the Menagerie Man. Even with the five of us straining our utmost at that crowbar the brute would not relax a muscle. "Hold on . . . a minute . . ." gasped Gran'pa, suddenly letting go. "I've an idea!" We hung on grimly and doggedly, and as we did so we saw the gorilla slowly wriggling its body upwards until its great jaws were opposite to Stringer's face, which was resting limply against the bars of the cage. In a flash Gran'pa was to the rescue. He pulled the unconscious man's head away from the menace of those awful teeth, took out a penknife, and suddenly jabbed it into the fleshiest part of the brute's arm. There was a scream of pain, a spluttered, half-human curse, a sudden relaxation, and the next moment everything gave way and we were sprawling on the ground. We arose to the most frightful pandemonium imaginable. The gorilla was rushing excitedly round the cage, shaking at the bars, tearing up the earth with its hands, and flinging the stuff at us in a paroxysm of fury. Its language was hideous, and consisted of a series of short barks and high-pitched screams, which made my ears sing and sent the blood rushing through my veins like cold water. "Can't you do anything?" I shouted at Gran'pa. "_Speak_ to it, man!" He inflated his chest, advanced towards the cage, and gave that weird, inexpressible cry which in ape language was intended to signify alarm. Three times he repeated it at the top of his voice. Gradually, the enraged brute grew quieter, uttered a moan of distress and retreated to a corner of the cage, shivering with fear. There it sat, like an old man, nursing its wounded arm and whimpering to itself about the callous injustice of life. The Menagerie Man stared at Gran'pa and then at the gorilla. "_Phew!_" he breathed, wiping his perspiring brow. "I don't know whether I'm on my head or my heels. It's . . . like a nightmare." We picked up poor little Stringer, who had now regained consciousness, carried him into the nearest caravan and sent for a doctor. When he arrived we were informed that there were no injuries, beyond a couple of broken ribs and a severe bruising. This was certainly bad enough, but we all felt that it had been a miraculous escape--and a distinct warning to us not to tamper with the unknown forces of nature. "This hypnotism," I said to Gran'pa, presently, "isn't going to be reliable enough a method. It's too risky. If that had happened in the African jungle there'd have been no Stringer left to tell the tale afterwards."