When Joe Tennison called to him, the Caracal passed by without giving him a glance, and it was just the same with his friend too, for when Cromartie heard the negro begin talking to him he just nodded his head and went into his inner room. But once there Mr. Cromartie reflected that this negro was to be his companion and neighbour for some years, and it would never do to run away from him everytime he spoke. Somehow he must make Tennison respect his privacy without making an enemy of him, and at that moment Mr. Cromartie saw no way of doing this. However, he took down a book of Waley’s poems translated from the Chinese, and went back into his cage with it in his hand, and then sat down and began reading.

He lives in thick forests, deep among the hills,

Or houses in the clefts of sharp, precipitous rocks;

Alert and agile is his nature, nimble are his wits;

Swift are his contortions,

Apt to every need,

Whether he climbs tall tree-stems of a hundred feet,

Or sways on the shuddering shoulder of a long bough.

Before him, the dark gullies of unfathomable streams;

Behind, the silent hollows of the lonely hills.

Twigs and tendrils are his rocking-chairs,

On rungs of rotting wood he trips

Up perilous places; sometimes, leap after leap,

Like lightning flits through the woods.

Sometimes he saunters with a sad, forsaken air;

Then suddenly peeps round

Beaming with satisfaction. Up he springs,

Leaps and prances, whoops and scampers on his way.

Up cliffs he scrambles, up pointed rocks,

Dances on shale that shifts or twigs that snap,

Suddenly swerves and lightly passes…

Oh, what tongue could unravel

The tale of all his tricks?

Alas, one trait

With the human tribe he shares; their sweets his sweet,

Their bitter is his bitter. Off sugar from the vat

Of brewers’ dregs he loves to sup.

So men put wine where he will pass.

How he races to the bowl!

How nimbly licks and swills!

Now he staggers, feels dazed and foolish,

Darkness falls upon his eyes…

He sleeps and knows no more.

Up steal the trappers, catch him by the mane,

Then to a string or ribbon tie him, lead him home;

Tether him in the stable or lock him in the yard;

Where faces all day long

Gaze, gape, gasp at him and will not go away.

Joe Tennison came up three or four times while he was reading and began a conversation, but Cromartie ignored his remarks and did not even lift his head, but just read quietly on.

Fortunately there were a great many of the public come to see their old favourite Mr. Cromartie now he was back, and to have a look at the new black man also, about whom there was nearly as much discussion as there ever had been about Cromartie himself.

The presence of the public was lucky for two reasons; firstly, it served to distract Joe Tennison by giving him that which he most wanted in life—an audience; and secondly, Mr. Cromartie was able, by totally ignoring the spectators, to show him that that was his ordinary method of conducting himself. There was therefore no reason why the negro should feel himself insulted by being treated as if he did not exist. And here I should explain that Mr. Cromartie had no objection to his neighbour as a negro, and no particular prejudice against persons of that colour. Mr. Tennison was indeed the first negro to whom he had spoken. At the same time the fellow aroused a strong feeling of dislike, and this aversion was one which steadily increased as time went on.