The Himalayan _tonga_ is a thing of delight. It is easily described, for
in principle it is the ancient Persian war-chariot, though the
accommodation is so modified as to allow four persons to sit in it back
to back; that is, three besides the driver. It is built for great
strength, the wheels being enormously heavy, and the pole of the size of
a mast. Harness the horses have none, save a single belt with a sort of
lock at the top, which fits into the iron yoke through the pole, and can
slide from it to the extremity; there is neither breeching nor trace nor
collar, and the reins run from the heavy curb bit directly through loops
on the yoke to the driver's hands. The latter, a wiry, long-bearded
Mohammedan, is armed with a long whip attached to a short thick stock,
and though he sits low, on the same level as the passenger beside him on
the front seat, he guides his half broken horses with amazing dexterity
round sharp curves and by giddy precipices, where neither parapet nor
fencing give the startled mind even a momentary impression of security.
The road from Simla to Kalka at the foot of the hills is so narrow that
if two vehicles meet, the one has to draw up to the edge of the road,
while the other passes on its way. In view of the frequent encounters,
every tonga-driver is provided with a post horn of tremendous power and
most discordant harmony; for the road is covered with bullock carts
bearing provisions and stores to the hill station. Smaller loads, such
as trunks and other luggage, are generally carried by coolies, who
follow a shorter path, the carriage road being ninety-two miles from
Umballa, the railroad station, to Simla, but a certain amount may be
stowed away in the tonga, of which the capacity is considerable.
In three of these vehicles our party of six began the descent on Tuesday
morning, wrapped in linen "dusters" of various shades and shapes, and
armed with countless varieties of smoking gear. The roughness of the
road precludes all possibility of reading, and, after all, the rapid
motion and the constant appearance of danger--which in reality does not
exist--prevent any overpowering _ennui_ from assailing the dusty
traveller. So we spun along all day, stopping once or twice for a little
refreshment, and changing horses every five or six miles. Everybody was
in capital spirits, and we changed seats often, thus obtaining some
little variety. Isaacs, who to every one's astonishment, seemed not to
feel any inconvenience from his accident, clung to his seat in Miss
Westonhaugh's tonga, sitting in front with the driver, while she and her
uncle or brother occupied the seat behind, which is far more
comfortable. At last, however, he was obliged to give his place to
Kildare, who had been very patient, but at last said it "really wasn't
fair, you know," and so Isaacs courteously yielded. At last we reached
Kalka, where the tongas are exchanged for _dâk gharry_ or mail carriage,
a thing in which you can sit up in the daytime and lie down at night,
there being an extension under the driver's box calculated for the
accommodation of the longest legs. When lying down in one of these
vehicles the sensation is that of being in a hearse and playing a game
of funeral. On this occasion, however, it was still early when we made
the change, and we paired off, two and two, for the last part of the
drive. By the well planned arrangements of Isaacs and Kildare, two
carriages were in readiness for us on the express train, and though the
difference in temperature was enormous between Simla and the plains,
still steaming from the late rainy season, the travelling was made easy
for us, and we settled ourselves for the journey, after dining at the
little hotel; Miss Westonhaugh bidding us all a cheery "good-night" as
she retired with her _ayah_ into the carriage prepared for her. I will
not go into tedious details of the journey--we slept and woke and slept
again, and smoked, and occasionally concocted iced drinks from our
supplies, for in India the carriages are so large that the traveller
generally provides himself with a generous basket of provisions and a
travelling ice-chest full of bottles, and takes a trunk or two with him
in his compartment. Suffice it to say that we arrived on the following
day at Fyzabad in Oude, and that we were there met by guides and
shikarries--the native huntsmen--who assured us that there were tigers
about near the outlying station of Pegnugger, where the elephants,
previously ordered, would all be in readiness for us on the following
day. The journey from Fyzabad to Pegnugger was not a long one, and we
set out in the cool of the evening, sending our servants along in that
"happy-go-lucky" fashion which characterises Indian life. It has always
been a mystery to me how native servants manage always to turn up at the
right moment. You say to your man, "Go there and wait for me," and you
arrive and find him waiting; though how he transferred himself thither,
with his queer-looking bundle, and his lota, and cooking utensils, and
your best teapot wrapped up in a newspaper and ready for use, and with
all the other hundred and one things that a native servant contrives to
carry about without breaking or losing one of them, is an unsolved
puzzle. Yet there he is, clean and grinning as ever, and if he were not
clean and grinning and provided with tea and cheroots, you would not
keep him in your service a day, though you would be incapable of looking
half so spotless and pleased under the same circumstances yourself.
On the following day, therefore, we found ourselves at Pegnugger,
surrounded by shikarries and provided with every instrument of the chase
that the ingenuity of man and the foresight of Isaacs and Ghyrkins could
provide. There were numbers of tents, sleeping tents, cooking tents, and
servants' tents; guns and ammunition of every calibre likely to be
useful; _kookries_, broad strong weapons not unlike the famous American
bowie knives (which are all made in Sheffield, to the honour, glory, and
gain, of British trade); there were huge packs of provisions edible and
potable; baskets of utensils for the kitchen and the table, and piles of
blankets and tenting gear for the camp. There was also the little
collector of Pegnugger, whose small body housed a stout heart, for he
had shot tigers on foot before now in company with a certain German
doctor of undying sporting fame, whose big round spectacles seemed to
direct his bullets with unerring precision. But the doctor was not here
now, and so the sturdy Englishman condescended to accept a seat in the
howdah, and to kill his game with somewhat less risk than usual.
This first day was occupied in transferring our party, now swelled by
countless beaters and numerous huntsmen, not to mention all the retinue
of servants necessary for an Indian camp, to the neighbourhood of the
battlefield. There is not much conversation on these occasions, for the
party is apt to become scattered, and there is a general tone of
expectancy in the air, the old hands conversing more with the natives
who know the district than with each other, and the young ones either
wondering how many tigers they will kill, or listening open mouthed to
the tales of adventure reeled off by the yard by the old bearded
shikarry, who has slain the king of the jungle with a _kookrie_ in hand
to hand struggle when he was young, and bears the scars of the deadly
encounter on his brown chest to this day. Old Ghyrkins, who was
evidently in his element, rode about on a little _tat_, questioning
beaters and shikarries, and coming back every now and then to bawl up
some piece of information to the little collector, who had established
himself on one of the elephants and looked down over the edge of the
howdah, the great pith hat on his head making him look like an immense
mushroom with a very thin stem sprouting suddenly from the back of the
huge beast. He smiled pleasantly at the old sportsman from his
elevation, and seemed to know all about it. It so chanced that when he
received Isaacs' telegrams he had been planning a little excursion on
his own account, and had been sending out scouts and beaters for some
days to ascertain where the game lay. This, of course, was so much clear
gain to us, and the little man was delighted at the opportune
coincidence which enabled him, by the unlimited money supplied, to join
in such a hunt as he had not seen since the time when the Prince of
Wales disported himself among the royal game, three years before. As for
Miss Westonhaugh, she was in the gayest of spirits, as she sat with her
brother on an elephant's back, while Isaacs, who loved the saddle,
circled round her and kept up a fire of little compliments and pretty
speeches, to which she was fast becoming inured. Kildare and I followed
them closely on another elephant, discoursing seriously about the hunt,
and occasionally shouting some question to John Westonhaugh, ahead,
about sport in the south.
Before evening we had arrived at our first camping ground, near a small
village on the outskirts of the jungle, and the tents were pitched on a
little elevation covered with grass, now green and waving. The men had
mowed a patch clear, and were busy with the pegs and all the
paraphernalia of a canvas house, and we strolled about, some of us
directing the operations, others offering a sacrifice of cooling liquids
and tobacco to the setting sun. Miss Westonhaugh had heard about living
in tents ever since she came to India, and had often longed to sleep in
one of those temporary chambers that are set up anywhere in the
"compound" of an English bungalow for the accommodation of the bachelor
guests whom the house itself is too small to hold; now she was enchanted
at the prospect of a whole fortnight under canvas, and watched with rapt
interest the driving of the pegs, the raising of the poles, and the
careful furnishing of her dwelling. There was a carpet, and armchairs,
and tables, and even a small bookcase with a few favourite volumes. To
us in civilised life it seems a great deal of trouble to transport a
lunch basket and a novel to some shady glen to enjoy a day's rest in the
open air, and we would almost rather starve than take the trouble to
carry provisions. In India you speak the word, and as by magic there
arises in the wilderness a little village of tents, furnished with every
necessary luxury--and the luxuries necessary to our degenerate age are
many--a kitchen tent is raised, and a skilled dark-skinned artist
provides you in an hour with a dinner such as you could eat in no hotel.
The treasures of the huge portable ice-chest reveal cooling wines and
soda water to the thirsty soul, and if you are going very far beyond the
reach of the large towns, a small ice-machine is kept at work day and
night to increase the supply while you sleep, and to maintain it while
you wake. In the _connât_ or verandah of the tent, long chairs await you
after your meal, and as you smoke the fragrant cigarette and watch the
stars coming out, you feel as comfortable as though you had been dining
in your own spacious bungalow in Mudnugger.
It was not long before all was ready, and having made many ablutions and
a little toilet, we assembled round the dinner table in the eating tent,
the same party that had dined at Mr. Currie Ghyrkins' house on Sunday
night, with the addition of the little collector of Pegnugger, whose
stories of his outlying district were full of humour and anecdote. The
talk bending in the direction of adventure, Kildare, who had been lately
in South Africa with his regiment, told some tales of Zulus and assegais
and Boers in the Hibernian style of hyperbole. The Irish blood never
comes out so strongly as when a story is to be told, and no amount of
English education and Oxford accent will suppress the tendency. The
brogue is gone, but the love of the marvellous is there still. Isaacs
related the experience of "a man he knew," who had been pulled off his
elephant, howdah and all, and had killed the tiger with a revolver at
half arm's length.
"Ah yes," said the little collector, who had not caught the names of all
the party when introduced, "I read about it at the time; I remember it
very well. It happened in Purneah two years ago. The gentleman was a Mr.
Isaacs of Delhi. Queer name too--remember perfectly." There was a roar
of laughter at this, in which the collector joined vociferously on being
informed that the man with the "queer name" was his neighbour at table.
"You see what you get for your modesty," cried old Ghyrkins, laughing to
convulsions.
"And is it really true, Mr. Isaacs?" asked Miss Westonhaugh, looking
admiringly across at the young man, who seemed rather annoyed.
And so the conversation went round and all were merry, and some were
sleepy after dinner, and we sat in long chairs under the awning or
_connât_. There was no moon yet, but the stars shone out as they shine
nowhere save in India, and the evening breeze played pleasantly through
the ropes after the long hot day. Miss Westonhaugh assured everybody for
the hundredth time that day that she rather liked the smell of cigars,
and so we smoked and chatted a little, and presently there was a jerk
and a sputtering sneeze from Mr. Ghyrkins, who, being weary with the
march and the heat and the good dinner, and on the borders of sleep, had
put the wrong end of his cigar in his mouth with destructive results.
Then he threw it away with a small volley of harmless expletives, and
swore he would go to bed, as he could not stand our dulness any longer;
but he merely shifted his position a little, and was soon snoring
merrily.
"What a pity it is we have no piano, Katharine," said John Westonhaugh,
who was fond of music. "Could you not sing something without any
accompaniment?"
"Oh no. Mr. Isaacs," she said, turning her voice to where she could see
the light of his cigarette and the faint outline of his chair in the
starlight, "here we are in the camp. Now where is the 'lute' you
promised to produce for us? I think the time has come at last for you to
keep your promise."
"Well," said he, "I believe there really is an old guitar or something
of the kind among my traps somewhere. But it might wake Mr. Ghyrkins,
who, I understand from his tones, is asleep."
Various opinions were expressed to the effect that Mr. Ghyrkins was not
so easily disturbed, and a voice like Kildare's was heard to mumble that
"it would not hurt him if he was," a sentence no one attempted to
construe. So the faithful Narain was summoned, and instructed to bring
the instrument if he could find it. I was rather surprised at Isaacs'
readiness to sing; but in the first place I had never heard him, and
besides I did not make allowance for the Oriental courtesy of his
character, which would not refuse anything, or make any show of refusal
in order to be pressed. Narain returned with a very modern-looking
guitar-case, and, opening the box, presented his master with the
instrument, which, as Isaacs took it to the light in the door of the
tent to see if it had travelled safely, appeared to be a perfectly new
German guitar. I suspected him of having purchased it at the little
music shop at Simla, for the especial amusement of our party.
"I thought it was a lute you played on," said Miss Westonhaugh, "a real,
lovely, ancient Assyrian lute, or something of that kind."
"Oh, a plain guitar is infinitely better and less troublesome," said
Isaacs as he returned to his seat in the dark and began to tune the
strings softly. "It takes so long to tune one of those old things, and
then nothing will make them stand. Now this one, you see,--or rather you
cannot see,--has an ingenious contrivance of screws by which you may
tune it in a moment." While he was speaking he was altering the pitch of
the strings, and presently he added, "There, it is done now," and two or
three sounding chords fell on the still air. "Now what shall I sing? I
await your commands."
"Something soft, and sweet, and gentle."
"A love-song?" asked he quietly.
"Well yes--a love-song if you like. Why not?" said she.
"No reason in the world that I can think of," I remarked. Whereat Lord
Steepleton Kildare threw his cigar away, and began lighting another a
moment after, as if he had discarded his weed by mistake.
Isaacs struck a few chords softly, and then began a sort of running
accompaniment. His voice, which seemed to me to be very high, was
wonderfully smooth and round, and produced the impression of being much
more powerful than he cared to show. He sang without the least effort,
and yet there was none of that effeminate character that I have noticed
in European male singers when producing high notes very softly. I do not
understand music, but I am sure I never heard an opera tenor with a
voice of such quality. The words of his song were Persian, and the pure
accents of his native tongue seemed well suited to the half passionate,
half plaintive air he had chosen. I afterwards found a translation of
the sonnet by an English officer, which I here give, though it conveys
little idea of the music of the original verse.
Last night, my eyes being closed in sleep, but my good fortune awake,
The whole night, the livelong night, the image of my beloved one was the
companion of my soul.
The sweetness of her melodious voice still remains vibrating on my soul;
Heavens! how did the sugared words fall from her sweeter lips;
Alas! all that she said to me in that dream has escaped from my memory,
Although it was my care till break of day to repeat over and over her
sweet words.
The day, unless illuminated by her beauty, is, to my eyes, of nocturnal
darkness.
Happy day that first I gazed upon that lovely face!
May the eyes of Jami long be blessed with pleasing visions, since they
presented to his view last night
The object, on whose account he passed his waking life in
expectation.[1]
His beautiful voice ceased, and with infinite skill he wove a few
strains of the melody into the final chords he played when he had
finished singing. It was all so entirely novel, so unlike any music most
of us had ever heard, and it was so undeniably good, that every one
applauded and said something to the singer in turn, expressing the
greatest admiration and appreciation. Miss Westonhaugh was the last to
speak.
"It is perfectly lovely," she said. "I wish I could understand the
words--are they as sweet as the music?"
"Sweeter," he answered, and he gave an offhand translation of two or
three verses.
"Beautiful indeed," she said; "and now sing me another, please." There
was no resisting such an appeal, with the personal pronoun in the
singular number. He moved a little nearer, and emphatically sang to her,
and to no one else. A song of the same character as the first, but, I
thought, more passionate and less dreamy, as his great sweet voice
swelled and softened and rose again in burning vibrations and waves of
sound. She did not ask a translation this time, but some one else did,
after the applause had subsided.
"I cannot translate these things," said Isaacs, "so as to do them
justice, or give you any idea of the strength and vitality of the
Persian verses. Perhaps Griggs, who understands Persian very well and is
a literary man, may do it for you. I would rather not try." I professed
my entire inability to comply with the request, and to turn the
conversation asked him where he had learned to play the guitar so well.
"Oh," he answered, "in Istamboul, years ago. Everybody plays in
Istamboul--and most people sing love-songs. Besides it is so easy," and
he ran scales up and down the strings with marvellous rapidity to
illustrate what he said.
"And do you never sing English songs, Mr. Isaacs?" asked the collector
of Pegnugger, who was enchanted, not having heard a note of music for
months.
"Oh, sometimes," he answered. "I think I could sing 'Drink to me only
with thine eyes'--do you know it?" He began to play the melody on the
guitar while he spoke.
"Rather--I should think so!" Kildare was heard to say. He was beginning
to think the concert had lasted long enough.
"Oh, do sing it, Mr. Isaacs," said the young girl, "and my brother and I
will join in. It will be so pretty!"
It certainly sounded very sweetly as he gave the melody in his clear,
high tones, and Miss Westonhaugh and John sang with him. Having heard it
several thousand times myself, I was beginning to recognise the tune
well enough to enjoy it a good deal.
"That is very nice," said Kildare, who was sorry he had made an
impatient remark before, and wanted to atone.
"Eh? what? how's that?" said Mr. Ghyrkins just waking up. "Oh! of
course. My niece sings charmingly. Quite an artist, you know." And he
struggled out of his chair and said it was high time we all went to bed
if we meant to shoot straight in the morning. The magistrate of
Pegnugger concurred in the opinion, and we reluctantly separated for the
night to our respective quarters, Isaacs and I occupying a tent
together, which he had caused to be sent on from Delhi, as being
especially adapted to his comfort.
On the following day at dawn we were roused by the sound of
preparations, and before we were dressed the voices of Mr. Currie
Ghyrkins and the collector were heard in the camp, stirring up the
sleepy servants and ordering us to be waked. The two old sportsmen felt
it their duty to be first on such an occasion as this, and in the calm
security that they would do everything that was right, Isaacs and I
discussed our tea and fruit--the _chota haziri_ or "little breakfast"
usually taken in India on waking--sitting in the door of our tent, while
Kiramat Ali and Narain and Mahmoud and the rest of the servants were
giving a final rub to the weapons of the chase, and making all the
little preparations for a long day. And we sat looking out and sipping
our tea.
In the cool of the dawn Miss Westonhaugh came tripping across the wet
grass to where her uncle was giving his final directions about the
furnishing of his howdah for the day; a lovely apparition of freshness
in the gray morning, all dressed in dark blue, a light pith
helmet-shaped hat pressing the rebellious white-gold hair almost out of
sight. She walked so easily it seemed as if her dainty little feet had
wings, as Hermes' of old, to ease the ground of their feather weight. A
broad belt hung across her shoulder with little rows of cartridges set
all along, and at the end hung a very business-like revolver case of
brown leather and of goodly length. No toy miniature pistol would she
carry, but a full-sized, heavy "six-shooter," that might really be of
use at close quarters. She stood some minutes talking with Mr. Ghyrkins,
not noticing us in the shadow of the tent some thirty yards away; Isaacs
and I watched her intently--with very different feelings, possibly, but
yet intensely admiring the fair creature, so strong and pliant, and yet
so erect and straight. She turned half round towards us, and I saw there
were flowers in the front of her dress. I wondered where they had come
from; they were roses--of all flowers in the world to be blooming in the
desert. Perhaps she had brought them carefully from Fyzabad, but that
was improbable; or from Pegnugger--yes, there would be roses in the
collector's garden there. Isaacs rose to his feet.
"Oh, come along, Griggs. You have had quite enough tea!"
"Go ahead; I will be with you in a moment." But a sudden thought struck
me, and I went with him, bareheaded, to greet Miss Westonhaugh. She
smiled brightly as she held out her hand.
"Good morning, Mr. Isaacs. Thank you so much for the roses. How _did_
you do it? They are _too_ lovely!" So it was just as I thought. Isaacs
had probably despatched a man back to Pegnugger in the night.
"Very easy I assure you. I am so glad you like them. They are not very
fresh after all though, I see," he added depreciatingly, as men do when
they give flowers to people they care about. I never heard a man find
fault with flowers he gave out of a sense of duty. It is perhaps that
the woman best loved of all things in the world has for him a sweetness
and a beauty that kills the coarser hues of the rose, and outvies the
fragrance of the double violets.
"Oh no!" she said, emphasising the negative vigorously. "I think they
are perfectly beautiful, but I want you to tell me where you got them."
I began talking to Ghyrkins, who was intent on the arrangement of his
guns which was going on under his eyes, but I heard the answer, though
Isaacs spoke in a low voice.
"You must not say that, Miss Westonhaugh. You yourself are the most
perfect and beautiful thing God ever made." By a superhuman effort I
succeeded in keeping my eyes fixed on Ghyrkins, probably with a stony,
unconscious stare, for he presently asked what I was looking at. I do
not think Isaacs cared whether I heard him or not, knowing that I
sympathised, but Mr. Ghyrkins was another matter. The Persian had made
progress, for there was no trace of annoyance in Miss Westonhaugh's
answer, though she entirely overlooked her companion's pretty speech.
"Seriously, Mr. Isaacs, if you mean to have one of them for your badge
to-day, you must tell me how you got them." I turned slowly round. She
was holding a single rose in her fingers, and looking from it to him, as
if to see if it would match his olive skin and his Karkee shooting-coat.
He could not resist the bribe.
"If you really want to know I will tell you, but it is a profound
secret," he said, smiling. "Griggs, swear!"
I raised my hand and murmured something about the graves of my
ancestors.
"Well," he continued, "yesterday morning at the collector's house I saw
a garden; in the garden there were roses, carefully tended, for it is
late. I took the gardener apart and said, 'My friend, behold, here is
silver for thee, both rupees and pais. And if thou wilt pick the best of
thy roses and deliver them to the swift runner whom I will send to thee
at supper time when the stars are coming out, I will give thee as much
as thou shalt earn in a month with thy English master. But if thou wilt
not do it, or if thou failest to do it, having promised, I will cause
the grave of thy father to be defiled with the slaughter of swine, and,
moreover, I will return and beat thee with a thick stick!' The fellow
was a Mussulman, and there was a merry twinkle in his eye as he took the
money and swore a great oath. I left a running man at Pegnugger with a
basket, and that is how you got the roses. Don't tell the collector,
that is all."
We all laughed, and Miss Westonhaugh gave the rose to Isaacs, who
touched it to his lips, under pretence of smelling it, and put it in his
buttonhole. Kildare came up at this moment and created a diversion; then
the collector joined us and scattered us right and left, saying it was
high time we were in the howdahs and on the way. So we buckled on our
belts, and those who wore hats put them on, and those who preferred
turbans bent while their bearers wound them on, and then we moved off to
where the elephants were waiting and got into our places, and the
_mahouts_ urged the huge beasts from their knees to their feet, and we
went swinging off to the forest. The pad elephants, who serve as beaters
and move between the howdah animals, joined us, and presently we went
splashing through the reedy patches of fern, and crashing through the
branches, towards the heart of the jungle.
Mr. Currie Ghyrkins, whose long experience had made him as cool when
after tigers as when reading the _Pioneer_ in his shady bungalow at
Simla, had taken Miss Westonhaugh with him in his howdah, and as an
additional precaution for her safety, the little collector of Pegnugger,
who was a dead shot, only allowed two pad elephants to move between
himself and Ghyrkins. As there were thirty-seven animals in all, the
rest of the party were much scattered. I thought there were too many
elephants for our six howdahs, but it turned out that I was mistaken,
for we had capital sport. The magistrate of Pegnugger, who knew the
country thoroughly, was made the despot of the day. His orders were
obeyed unquestioningly and unconditionally, and we halted in long line
or marched onwards, forcing a passage through every obstacle, at his
word. We might have been out a couple of hours, watching every patch of
jungle and blade of long rank grass for a sight of the striped skin,
writhing through the reeds, that we so longed to see, when the quick,
short crack of a rifle away to the right brought us to a halt, and every
one drew a long breath and turned, gun in hand, in the direction whence
the sound had come. It was Kildare; he had met his first tiger, and the
first also of the hunt. He had put up the animal not five paces in front
of him, stealing along in the cool grass and hoping to escape between
the elephants, in the cunning way they often do. He had fired a snap
shot too quickly, inflicting a wound in the flank which only served to
rouse the tiger to madness. With a leap that seemed to raise its body
perpendicularly from the ground, the gorgeous creature flew into the air
and settled right on the head of Kildare's elephant, while the terrified
_mahout_ wound himself round the howdah. It would have been a trying
position for the oldest sportsman, but to be brought into such terrific
encounter at arm's length, almost, at one's very first experience of the
chase, was a terrible test of nerve. Those who were near said that in
that awful moment Kildare never changed colour. The elephant plunged
wildly in his efforts to shake off the beast from his head, but Kildare
had seized his second gun the moment he had discharged the first, and
aiming for one second only, as the tossing head and neck of the tusker
brought the gigantic cat opposite him, fired again. The fearful claws,
driven deep and sure into the thick hide of the poor elephant, relaxed
their hold, the beautiful lithe limbs straightened by their own
perpendicular weight, and the first prize of the day dropped to the
ground like lead, dead, shot through the head.
A great yell of triumph arose all along the line, and the little
_mahout_ crept cautiously back from his lurking-place behind the howdah
to see if the coast were clear. Kildare had behaved splendidly, and
shouts of congratulation reached his ears from all sides. Miss
Westonhaugh waved her handkerchief in token of approbation, every one
applauded, and far away to the left Isaacs, who was in the last howdah,
clapped his hands vigorously, and sent his high clear voice ringing like
a trumpet down the line.
"Well done, Kildare! well done, indeed!" and his rival's praise was not
the least grateful to Lord Steepleton on that day. Meanwhile the
shikarries gathered around the fallen beast. It proved to be a young
tigress some eight feet long, and the clean bright coat showed that she
was no man-eater. So the pad elephant came alongside, to use a nautical
phrase not inappropriate, and kneeling down received its burden
willingly, well knowing that the slain beauty was one of his deadly
foes. The _mahout_ pronounced the elephant on which Kildare was mounted
able to proceed, and only a few huge drops of blood marked where the
tigress had kept her hold. We moved on again, beating the jungle,
wheeling and doubling the long line, wherever it seemed likely that some
striped monster might have eluded us. Marching and counter-marching
through the heat of the day, we picked up another-prize in the
afternoon. It was a large old tiger, nine feet six as he lay; he fell an
easy prey to the gun of the little collector of Pegnugger, who sent a
bullet through his heart at the first shot, and smiled rather
contemptuously as he removed the empty shell of the cartridge from his
gun. He would rather have had Kildare's chance in the morning.
After all, two tigers in a day was not bad sport for the time of year. I
knew Isaacs would be disappointed at not having had a shot, where his
rival in a certain quarter had had so good an opportunity for displaying
skill and courage; and I confessed to myself that I preferred a small
party, say, a dozen elephants and three howdahs, to this tremendous and
expensive _battue_. I had a shot-gun with me, and consoled myself by
shooting a peacock or two as we rolled and swayed homewards. We had
determined to keep to the same camp for a day or two, as we could enter
the forest from another point on the morrow, and might even beat some of
the same ground again with success.
It was past five when we got down to the tents and descended from our
howdahs, glad to stretch our stiffened limbs in a brisk walk. The dead
tigers were hauled into the middle of the camp, and the servants ran
together to see the result of the _sahib log's_ day out. We retired to
dress and refresh ourselves for dinner.
* * * * *