by Paul Gallico
“Stuff him!” “Cut him up!” “Pickle him!” “Deny him!” “Inject him!” “Slice him!” “Analyse him!”
“Ladies and gentlemen!” cried the latter. “Quiet please! I understand your zeal, but I must have time to consider which one of you is to have it, or maybe all of you just a piece of it. In the meantime he is to be put into a box under lock and key in the laboratory. I will give you my decision in the morning. Dismissed!”
They all trooped out except Wendy and Miss Martinet. Wendy begged. “Oh, please, can’t I have my Manx Mouse back? I don’t want him to be hurt or killed…”
“Too late. You should have thought of that in the first place,” the Headmaster said and then added, “However, just think of the contribution you may be making to science.”
“Aren’t you going to punish the child?” inquired the teacher.
“Yes, yes, of course,” replied the Headmaster rather absent-mindedly, for the Manx Mouse was now sitting up on his desk with a most touching expression of kindness combined with resignation on his face, remarkable in one threatened with so horrible a fate. “Have her write one hundred times: ‘I must not cause trouble to people by imagining things’.”
And so with a heavy heart, Wendy went back to her classroom and after school stayed in for a long time writing her lines.
It was almost dusk when a certain Mr Mellow finished correcting his papers, locked up his desk in the school and prepared to go home.
Mr Mellow was the poetry teacher, a young man with flaming red hair and friendly eyes.
As he went down the corridor he heard the sound of weeping and saw that it came from a little girl sitting alone in an empty classroom, her face buried in her arms.
He went in and, recognising her, said, “Why, Wendy, what on earth is the matter?”
She looked up and sobbed, “Oh, Mr Mellow! They’re going to do the most awful things to my poor Manx Mouse.”
“Oh, are they?” asked Mr Mellow, who, being a poet of sorts himself was never surprised at anything. “Tell me about it.”
And thereupon Wendy did, from the very beginning. When she had finished, Mr Mellow said gravely and without questioning her story, “Where did you say they had him?”
“In a box, locked away in the laboratory.”
Mr Mellow looked and listened. There seemed to be no one about. He whispered to Wendy, “You come with me and we’ll go and see. I might just have a key that could open the door. But tiptoes and don’t make a sound.”
They crept upstairs to the second floor. And sure enough, the fifth key on Mr Mellow’s ring worked. He switched on a shaded lamp and said, “Come.”
On the long laboratory table was a small wooden box from inside of which came a frantic rustling, scrabbling and squeaking. And laid out on the table too, was everything prepared for whatever was to happen the following morning. There was a jar of spirit for preserving, test tubes, Bunsen burners and bottles of smelly chemicals for analysing. Also there were knives, scissors and scalpels for dissecting and vials of different coloured dyes for injection – all the terrifying tools of scientific exploration.
Mr Mellow went over and opened the lid of the box and they looked in as Manxmouse gave a shout of relief, “Oh, Wendy! I knew you’d come.”
The poetry teacher said half to himself, “Well, well! Then it’s my dream too, now. What a dear little fellow.” He lifted him out gently and placed him in Wendy’s hand, and she petted, kissed and cuddled him. Then being careful not to squash Harrison G., she threw her arms about Mr Mellow and cried:
“Oh, thank you, thank you! You’ve saved him!”
“Shhhhhhh!” he whispered. “We mustn’t be caught now.” Putting out the light and locking the door, they hurried down the stairs and into the road that went past the schoolhouse. It had grown darker.
“What will you do with him now, Wendy?”
“Take him home.”
“Ought you not to let him go free?”
“Let him go? Why?”
There was a most curious expression on Mr Mellow’s face and once more he seemed to be speaking half to himself. “Because we are never allowed to keep our dearest dreams. There are always those who set out to destroy them. And besides, he belongs to Manx Cat.”
And then with a shock he realised what he had said. He did not know why he had said it, except that it seemed all to be part of the strange happenings ever since he had heard a child crying by herself in a classroom.
“Oh, I am sorry,” he apologized.
“That’s all right,” said Manxmouse. “It’s something that everyone says. And I suppose some day it will happen.”
“But I don’t understand,” Wendy said. “Why must I let him go? I love him.”
“Because he isn’t a secret any more,” replied Mr Mellow. “People know about him. They will come to you and find him and take him away again.” And then he added, “You’ve had him and loved him, haven’t you, Wendy? That is more than is given to many of us.”
Manxmouse said nothing, for this was beyond his understanding. Besides, he was wondering when and where and how he would finally meet Manx Cat and what his end would be.
Wendy looked up into the face of the poetry teacher saying, “Would it be better for Manxmouse?”
“For both of you.”
They went down the road and then turned off into a lane close by some woods. Near the edge there was a copse of trees in a circle, almost like a fairy ring. “Now this would be a likely place,” said Mr Mellow. “He’ll be quite safe here, even if they come looking for him. Then he can be on his way.”
Wendy held Manxmouse to her cheek and kissed him again. She said, “Oh, I’m sorry, Harrison G. Manxmouse. They spoiled our secret. But at least you have a first name and a lovely initial now. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Wendy H. Troy,” said Manxmouse, and put his two strange kangaroo-like paws to her cheek. “I’ll always remember you.”
They left him sitting up watching them within the fairy ring of trees and Wendy turned her back quickly so that Manxmouse would not see that she was crying.
Mr Mellow reached down and took her hand. “Come,” he said, “I’ll walk home with you.”
Chapter Eight
THE STORY OF THE TERRIFIED TIGER
IT WAS A week later that Manxmouse met the tiger. The weather had changed almost immediately and, as though to make up for past kindnesses, April came roaring back rather more like March with cold and rain and wind – wet grey days and miserable blustery nights. Whichever way Manxmouse travelled - north, east, south or west – it remained the same, chilling and soaking him until he thought he would never be warm again.
And as to how he travelled, sometimes it was on foot but more often by lorry. For Manxmouse had become quite clever at hitching rides for long distances without the drivers ever knowing he was there.
He would wait until one of them would stop, whereupon he would creep out from under a bush, climb up the left rear wheel and nip under the canvas at the back. There he would stay until he decided he had gone far enough. Sometimes there was even a meal to be had, for often the vehicles were loaded with fruits or goodies on their way to the big cities.
After one of these rides Manxmouse would climb down, wait until the lorry had departed and then walk along the road until he came to the nearest signpost, which would give him an idea of where he was.
On this occasion it appeared to be in the wilder part of Nevershire, near the town of Ringround, for he had caught a lorry going north carrying a consignment of Bakewell tarts of which he had treated himself to a rather large portion and did not wish to be caught by the driver. So when they had come to a halt, he had dropped off quickly and made his way westwards across country.
Before he had proceeded more than a few hundred yards he was soaked to the skin again, for it was a foul day, freezingly cold with the rain coming down in sheets. The drops driven by the wind were like bullets and hurt his tiny body. Manxmouse was forced to look for sh
elter. He found it in a thick copse of bushes, at the foot of a tangle of trees. And there he came upon the tiger.
For one terrible moment Manxmouse’s heart stopped beating, for he thought this must be Manx Cat and his end was at hand. It was certainly the largest cat he had ever seen, a thousand times bigger than himself, striped like a ginger and with eyes that glowed like the headlamps of the lorries Manxmouse had been riding. And at first glance and the shock of meeting in the confined space of the copse, it seemed to have no tail. It was only later that Manxmouse discovered that it was withdrawn between the legs.
At the same time that Manxmouse leapt back with a shriek of “Manx Cat!”, the tiger recoiled with a “Who’s there?” And then, upon seeing who and what, he crouched down again with a low moan and sighed, “Oh, it’s only a mouse. Imagine me, a tiger, being frightened by you!”
So it was not Manx Cat after all! Manxmouse felt he could hardly say, “It’s only a tiger”. For all he knew, tigers were even more dangerous than Manx Cats were supposed to be and this one was so enormous that he could have swallowed Manxmouse at a gulp and never even felt him go down his throat. Yet he made no move to do so. On the contrary, he seemed to be a most unhappy beast for he whimpered, “Oh dear! What am I going to do?”
“Do?” repeated Manxmouse. “What would a tiger be doing here anyway in the middle of England? Besides, I didn’t know there were any tigers in England.”
“Well, there is and I’m it. And what’s more, I’m in a fix. You see, I’ve done the silliest thing. I’ve run away.”
Manxmouse came closer for obviously there was nothing now to alarm him. He said, “Run away? From where and whom?”
“From my circus,” moaned the tiger. “I must have been out of my mind. I don’t know what came over me all of a sudden. But one of the new men left the door of my cage open and before I realised, I was through it and off.”
“But didn’t anyone see you?” Manxmouse said. “Aren’t they looking for you?”
“Well, that’s just it,” the tiger replied. “Men will come and hunt me with guns and pitchforks and worst of all, my trainer will think I don’t love him any more. No, no! There’s nothing anyone can do for me.”
“I could try,” said the Manx Mouse. “My name is Manxmouse, Harrison G.”
The tiger raised his head, “My name is Khan – Burra Khan. It means Great Lord. I’m a fine Lord, aren’t I? Take a look at me.”
Manxmouse did and had to admit to himself that he had never seen a drearier-looking specimen. The tiger’s beautiful black, orange and white striped coat was soaked, matted with mud and full of burrs, nettles and leaves.
“It’s this British weather,” said Burra Khan, “not fit for beast or man. I’ve never been so wet and cold in my life before. It’s all my own fault for not using my head. There was the open door and if I’d just stayed where I was, somebody would have come and closed it. But no, my curiosity again. I had to go through it to have a look-see at some of your country. Country! Ugh!”
Here he shook himself, sending a shower of spray and mud flying in all directions. “You can have it! No sun to dry one out; no good places to hide and nothing to eat. They must have broadcast an alarm about my escaping. I haven’t come across so much as a dog at large.” Here he noticed that Manxmouse looked up at him a little nervously and moved a few inches away. “You needn’t worry, young fellow,” Burra Khan said, “I don’t eat Manx Mice. That’s for—”
“I know,” said Manxmouse, just a little wearily, “Manx Cat.”
“I didn’t mean any offence,” Burra Khan said, “I’m really glad to see you. I’m frightened. I just don’t know what to do.”
“But were they cruel to you in the circus that you ran away?” Manxmouse asked.
“Oh, my goodness, no!” replied Burra Khan. “That’s why I’m so angry with myself. I had a wonderful life. Two cracking good meals a day, a warm, dry place to sleep no matter how hard it was raining or blowing outside. Even in the dead of winter I had a properly heated cage; a lot of friends to talk to and not much work. Twice a day in the ring doing a couple of silly tricks and that was it. The rest was money for jam.”
“But I thought that trainers were cruel, beat you with sticks, or long whips, used red hot pokers, or exploded pistols in your face to make you do what they wanted.”
Burra Khan gave a disdainful snort. “Nobody tries that with us any more. That’s out of date. My trainer works without saying a word. We understand each other. It’s a job, see?”
“Not quite, I don’t,” said Manxmouse.
“Well, look here,” Burra Khan explained, “the circus pays my trainer and he looks after me. Now if he were to go pushing me about and making me irritable, or I were to mess him up – one claw would do it, you know – there wouldn’t be any act, would there?”
“But wouldn’t you like to be free?” Manxmouse asked.
“What, without my trainer?” Burra Khan answered. “I should say not! He’s my pal. He’s just like another tiger to me. I’m much better off with the circus. Do you know how old I am?”
“I couldn’t guess,” Manxmouse replied.
“Fourteen. And I’ve never been in better shape in my life. Do you know where I’d be if I were in the jungle today? Dead five years or more – food for the vultures.”
The tiger seemed to be staring back into the past. “I’ve seen enough of jungle life: starvation, water holes drying up, white hunters looking for rugs. You get cut up in a bit of a battle and there’s no one to look after you. The wound goes septic and that’s the end of you. My trainer takes better care of me than he does of his own family. He rubs my head, scratches my tummy and hugs me. And when I get sick he gives me medicine and sits up with me all night. You show me any other tiger who would do that!”
“How can he be both a man and a tiger at the same time?” Manxmouse asked, bewildered by Burra Khan’s story.
“Well,” said the big beast, “it’s a kind of game of pretend between us. He carries a long whip and a stick into the cage with him. I hit the stick with my paw, pretending I think that I am hitting him. The whip is just to give me my cue what to do. He never forces or makes me do anything I don’t want. He asks me. And when I’ve done it, he says ‘Thank you!’”
“And I’ll tell you something else; he doesn’t really like to see me do silly things like sitting up and waving my paws, balancing on a barrel or jumping through a hoop. Every so often he will come to my cage after the act and rub my ears and say, ‘Sorry, old fellow – but it’s a living, isn’t it?’ How can you help but care for a chap like that? And now I’ve run away and caused him nothing but trouble. They’ve got out the police and the soldiers. If I frighten anyone, the circus will be sued. If I’m shot, he’ll be out of a job.”
“Oh, I wish I could help you!” Manxmouse cried, for Burra Khan had painted a clear enough picture of the pickle into which he had got himself. Men with dogs and guns would soon be beating the countryside. Women and children must be trembling behind closed doors. Neither was a tiger on the loose a good thing for old people with bad hearts.
“What could you do?” moaned Burra Khan. “It’s my fault and this will be the end of me.”
“Oh, come on, now,” Manxmouse said. “Tigers don’t give up that easily. For one thing, I’m so small that nobody notices me. Do you know where the circus might be?”
“It’s not far,” Burra Khan replied. “I followed it during the night. There’s a cliff a few hundred yards from here. The circus is just outside the town at the bottom of it. There’ll be a big tent in a vacant lot somewhere, with smaller ones and painted wagons and cages all around. There’ll be a horse tent and elephants staked out. You wouldn’t be able to miss it.” And he named and described to him all the animals he would see.
“I’ll go,” Manxmouse said eagerly. “I might think of something. You stay here and don’t stir. When I get an idea, I’ll come back for you.”
“You’re a good fellow,” Burra Kha
n said. “I won’t budge.”
Shortly after, hustling along in the direction that Burra Khan had indicated, Manxmouse found the show, or rather he almost fell into it.
For he had been making his way along a plateau of high ground, rough country of woods and rocks, when suddenly without warning he came to the edge of the cliff. Looking down he saw the circus at the bottom of it and, near by, a small town.
It was exactly as Burra Khan had said: a large tent with a flag flying from its ridgepole and many smaller pennants fluttering, and strings of coloured electric lights. There were wagons about with cages attached, gaily-painted living wagons, a long tent in which he could see horses with shining jewel-studded harness and feather crests on their heads. And further down, staked out in the open, was a line of huge grey beasts that had a most familiar look. And then he remembered what Burra Khan had told him.
“Well, for goodness sake!” he said to himself. “So an elephant is really a Nellyphant!”
He remained watching to see what else he could learn and, at the very end of the row of beast cages in which he could see lions and leopards, wolves, monkeys and many other animals, he saw one that was empty with the door swinging open. That must have been the one from which poor Burra Khan had escaped. How to get him back in there with no one any the wiser? Manxmouse wished desperately to accomplish this, for it was so sad to see so huge and beautiful a creature as Burra Khan miserable, discouraged, frightened and hopeless.
And as he looked down from above, the tiger’s plight was even more vividly borne home to Manxmouse. For a large group of people now emerged from the main tent, where apparently some kind of a meeting had been going on. Amongst them he saw policemen and soldiers, and roughly-dressed men who were in all likelihood farmers and hunters. They carried guns and some had dogs of various kinds on leads. It was evident that there would be no performance that evening, but instead renewal of the death hunt for the unfortunate tiger. Manxmouse saw a man sitting in front of the empty cage with his face bowed into his hands, and wondered whether this was Burra Khan’s trainer.
