Not a word did the performer speak, but his hand rained blows on
the nose, while snarl after snarl was spit from between Bengal's
gleaming teeth.

The trainer was edging slowly toward the door. He knew that
nothing could be done with the beast in its present state of
terrible temper.

His only hope was that at a favorable moment, when the attendants
came with their long, iron bars, he might be able to spring from
the door at his back, which he was trying to reach.

Phil's mind was working like an automatic machine. He saw now
what the trainer was attempting to do, and was seeking for some
means of helping the man. But what could a slender boy hope to
do against the power of a great, savage brute like Bengal?

Phil concluded there was nothing.

A pistol flashed almost in the face of the two lads. Mr.
Sparling had started away on a run to fetch the attendants who
either had not heard or failed to heed his call.

"What did he do that f-f-for?" stammered Teddy.

"To drive the tiger back. It was a blank cartridge that he
fired. I think the tiger is going to attack him. Yes, there he
goes! Oh, that's _terrible!_"