The jaguar’s stronghold is a tree, and his _modus operandi_, when a herd of peccaries come trotting through the forest, as follows. Stealing cautiously through the underbrush, he marks the direction in which the herd are going, and then climbs a tree in their line of march. Crawling out upon one of the lower boughs, he waits till one passes underneath it, and then, leaping on its back, dislocates the neck by a rapid wrench round of it with his paw, and bounds into the tree again, leaving it dead on the ground. The ill-fated animal’s companions rush up, excited and irritated, and vengefully surround the tree. The jaguar, however, within the ample domain of a large forest tree—for such he will have chosen—is entirely at home, and being, moreover, hardly discernible amidst the foliage and creepers, has seldom to stand a long siege. The restless little pigs, tired of inactivity and not having their anger whetted by the sight, and near proximity, of their enemy, soon go off, leaving their dead companion where it was slain; upon which the jaguar descends, and feasts upon it at his leisure. This is the account given by the inhabitants of Brazil and Central America of the way in which the jaguar procures a dinner of pork, nor, since it is in itself probable and in accordance with the habits of the animal, is there any reason to doubt it. It need not be supposed, however, that the peccary must always pass just under the chosen bough, so that the jaguar can leap directly down upon it. This, no doubt, would be the ideal state of things, but it is not always, or, indeed, often, that things come up to one’s ideal. Failing this, no doubt, the jaguar would drop to the ground as near the peccary as he could manage, and develop a closer intimacy afterwards. A rapid bound or two, and with a growl or murderous roar, the “yellow peril” would be upon him, nor would his own pigtail avail him aught—caught unawares, all would soon be over. Still, even under these less favourable conditions, a wary member of the herd might, sometimes, save itself by making a dash to its nearest companions, or even, perhaps, in the case of a stout old boar, by resisting till these had run up. In wild nature there is continual competition between the attacking species and the one attacked by it, both attaining, by this means, to the perfection of aptitude in opposed directions. CHAPTER XX THE GREAT CACHALOT OR SPERM-WHALE—HOW THE BULLS FIGHT—A BATTLE OF MONSTERS—GIANTS THAT EAT GIANTS—ENORMOUS CUTTLEFISH—THE KRAKEN A REALITY—DISAPPOINTED PROFESSORS.