A post card from Davis to Collins explained the reasons for Michael’s return.  “He sings too much to suit my fancy,” was Davis’s way of putting it, thereby¹ unwittingly giving the clue to what Collins had vainly sought, and which Collins as unwittingly failed to grasp.  As he told Johnny:  
“From the looks of the beatings he’s got no wonder he’s been singing.  That’s the trouble with these animal people.  They don’t know how to take care of their property.  They hammer its head off and get grouched because it ain’t an angel of obedience².—Put him away, Johnny.  Wash him clean, and put on the regular dressing³ wherever the skin’s broken.  I give him up myself, but I’ll find some place for him in the next bunch of dogs.”
 
Two weeks later, by sheerest accident, Harris Collins made the discovery for himself of what Michael was good for.  In a spare moment in the arena⁴, he had sent for him to be tried out by a dog man who needed several fillers-in.  Beyond what he knew, such as at command to stand up, to lie down, to come here and go there, Michael had done nothing.  He had refused to learn the most elementary things a show-dog should know, and Collins had left him to go over to another part of the arena where a monkey band, on a sort of mimic⁵ stage, was being arranged and broken in.
 
Frightened and mutinous⁶, nevertheless the monkeys were compelled to perform by being tied to their seats and instruments and by being pulled and jerked from off stage by wires fastened to their bodies.  The leader of the orchestra, an irascible elderly monkey, sat on a revolving⁷ stool to which he was securely attached.  When poked⁹ from off the stage by means of long poles, he flew into ecstasies¹⁰ of rage.  At the same time, by a rope arrangement, his chair was whirled around and around.  To an audience the effect would be that he was angered by the blunders of his fellow-musicians.  And to an audience such anger would be highly ludicrous.  As Collins said:
 
“A monkey band is always a winner.  It fetches the laugh, and the money’s in the laugh.  Humans just have to laugh at monkeys because they’re so similar and because the human has the advantage and feels himself superior.  Suppose we’re walking along the street, you and me, and you slip and fall down.  Of course I laugh.  That’s because I’m superior to you.  I didn’t fall down.  Same thing if your hat blows off.  I laugh while you chase it down the street.  I’m superior.  My hat’s still on my head.  Same thing with the monkey band.  All the fool things of it make us feel so superior.  We don’t see ourselves as foolish.  That’s why we pay to see the monkeys behave foolish.”
 
It was scarcely a matter of training the monkeys.  Rather was it the training of the men who operated the concealed¹¹ mechanisms¹² that made the monkeys perform.  To this Harris Collins was devoting his effort.
 
“There isn’t any reason why you fellows can’t make them play a real tune¹³.  It’s up to you, just according to how you pull the wires.  Come on.  It’s worth going in for.  Let’s try something you all know.  And remember, the regular orchestra will always help you out.  Now, what do you all know?  Something simple, and something the audience’ll know, too?”
 
He became absorbed in trying out the idea, and even borrowed a circus rider whose act was to play the violin while standing¹⁴ on the back of a galloping¹⁵ horse and to throw somersaults on such precarious¹⁶ platform while still playing the violin.  This man he got merely to play simple airs in slow time, so that the assistants could keep the time and the air and pull the wires accordingly.
 
“Of course, if you make a howling mistake,” Collins told them, “that’s when you all pull the wires like mad and poke⁸ the leader and whirl him around.  That always brings down the house.  They think he’s got a real musical ear and is mad at his orchestra for the discord¹⁷.”
 
In the midst of the work, Johnny and Michael came along.
 
“That guy says he wouldn’t take him for a gift,” Johnny reported to his employer.
 
“All right, all right, put him back in the kennels¹⁸,” Collins ordered hurriedly.—“Now, you fellows, all ready!  ‘Home, Sweet Home!’  Go to it, Fisher!  Now keep the time the rest of you! . . . That’s it.  With a full orchestra you’re making motions like the tune.—Faster, you, Simmons.  You drag behind all the time.”
 
And the accident happened.  Johnny, instead of immediately obeying the order and taking Michael back to the kennels, lingered in the hope of seeing the orchestra leader whirled chattering¹⁹ around on his stool.  The violinist, within a yard of where Michael sat squatted²⁰ on his haunches, played the notes of “Home, Sweet Home” with loud slow exactitude and emphasis.
 
And Michael could not help it.  No more could he help it than could he help responding with a s............