BY
ELEANOR STREDDER
_Author of "Jack and his Ostrich,"
"Archie's Find"
etc._
"In the night, O the night.
When the wolves are howling."
TENNYSON.
T. NELSON AND SONS
_London, Edinburgh, and New York_
1892
*Contents*
I. THE OLD GRAY WOLF
II. IN PURSUIT
III. HOW THE SEARCH ENDED
IV. THE WOLF'S LAIR
V. NOAK-HOLLY
VI. AWAY TO THE HILLS
VII. THE RANA'S SONS
VIII. THE INVITATION
IX. OLIVER AND HIS UNCLE
X. A VISIT TO THE RANA'S CASTLE
XI. THE FOOTPRINT
XII. BEATING THE KOOND
XIII. CAUGHT IN A TRAP
XIV. THE HOMEWARD ROAD
XV. A LITTLE SAVAGE
XVI. THE CONCLUSION
*ALIVE IN THE JUNGLE.*
*CHAPTER I.*
_*THE OLD GRAY WOLF.*_
Night was brooding over the wide and swampy Bengal plain. The moon had
sunk low in the west, and was hiding behind a bank of threatening
clouds. Darkness and shadow covered the sleeping world around. But the
stilly quiet which marked "the darkest hour of all the night" was broken
by the fierce growling of a tiger and a buffalo, fighting furiously on
the open highroad, within a dozen yards of Mr. Desborough's indigo
factory.
The jackal pack were gathering among the distant hills, already scenting
their prey. On they came, rushing down the nearest valley in answer to
their leader's call--shrieking, wailing, howling in their haste to be in
time to pounce upon the tiger's leavings; an ever-increasing wave of
sound that startled the weary factory-workers, sleeping in their
mud-walled huts under the mango trees. The pack sweep round the
straw-thatched sheds belonging to the factory, and gather in front of
Mr. Desborough's house.
This was a large one-storied building, looking very much like a Swiss
cottage, with its gabled roof and white-painted walls. The broad eaves
projected so far beyond the walls that they covered the veranda, which
ran right round the house. Like the sheds of the factory, it was
thatched. Beautiful climbing plants festooned the columns which
supported the veranda, and flung their long trailing arms across the
pointed gables. A whole colony of wild birds nestle in the reedy
thatch, and find out quiet corners in the cool shadow of that wide
veranda. A pair of owls are wheeling round and round. Kites, hoopoes,
and blue jays find such comfortable homes beneath Mr. Desborough's
eaves, and bring up such numerous families, that the whole place seems
alive with twittering wings and chirping voices. But now the
flying-foxes, which have hung all day head downwards from the trees like
so many black bags, are screaming and chattering at their shrillest.
The hot May night seems more oppressive than ever. There is neither
peace nor rest. Every door and window in the bungalow is wide open, for
within the heat is intense.
The youngest child is ill with fever, and cannot sleep.
Like so many English fathers and mothers living in India, Mr. and Mrs.
Desborough have lost several of their children. Grief for those that
were taken from them makes them watch over the dear ones that are left
with nervous anxiety. Mr. Desborough had put up a tent on the lawn,
hoping the little sufferer might find rest in the fresher air,
surrounded by the cool night-breezes and the sweet scent of the flowers.
The poor child was dozing on its mother's lap when the yell of the
jackals arose. They were quite safe in their tent; for a mat was tied
across the door, and nothing could get in to hurt them. But how was
their boy to sleep in such a noise?
The fierce crescendo was reaching its loudest, when Mr. Desborough came
out with his loaded gun in his hand, and fired it into the air, hoping
the sound of a shot would scare the jackals away. He was right: the
pack swept past with a mad rush, helter-skelter on the tiger's track.
He paused on the steps of the veranda, and looked cautiously around him.
The dark shadows of the trees were thrown across the dewy grass.
Overgrown bushes, swaying in the night-wind, seemed to take to
themselves fantastic shapes. His garden might well be described as one
wild tangle of flowers. Roses of every shade, carnations, mignonnette,
petunias, myrtles, choked each other: tall scarlet lilies and
pomegranate flowers caught the twining honeysuckle, and taught its
trailing branches to kiss the ground. Amidst this luxuriant profusion,
in the glamour of a darkened heaven, it was no wonder Mr. Desborough did
not distinguish the flick of a tawny tail, creeping stealthily behind a
giant rhododendron. At the sound of the shot the old gray wolf skulked
down amidst the folded flowers; and the father, after exchanging a word
with his wife, went back to his bed comforted, for his darling, his
little Horace, was conscious--yes, conscious--and crying for his
twin-brother Carlyon. Racy and Carl, as they were usually called, had
never before been parted.
Poor little Racy had not known much about it when his mother sent Carl
into another room, and refused to let Kathleen give him one good-night
kiss. Kathleen was their only sister--a soft-eyed, fragile girl, about
nine years old. She had wept with her father and mother over an empty
bassinet; and so, when two little brothers were given to her in one day,
her delight knew no bounds. From the hour of their birth she became
their devoted slave.
Carl, in the full wilfulness of his second summer, was too little to
understand the reason why he was banished from his mother's lap and
parted from Racy. He strutted about in his indignant anger, looking as
red as a turkey-cock; and no one but Kathleen could do anything with
him.
She invented some fresh amusement every time the clamour for Racy was
renewed. Her last great success was the manufacture of a bridle of red
ribbon for Sailor, a big black retriever, the favourite playfellow of
the twins.
Kathleen, too, was wakened by the yelling of the jackals. She heard her
father's step in the veranda, and listened to the sound of his gun as if
it were a waking dream.
A voracious mosquito, which had crept inside the net curtains which
enveloped her little bed, stung her cheek. Up started Kathleen, and
called to the ayah, or native nurse, who slept on a mat by Carlyon's
cot. Yes, there was something the matter; she was sure of it now. A
small dusky hand put back the thin curtains; a gentle, smiling black
face peeped at her; and cold water was sprinkled over the flushed
forehead and burning pillow, until Kathleen felt refreshed. Her winged
tormentor was caught and killed, and the ayah would have left her; but
no. Kathleen was broad awake now. She was thinking about her father.
Something was the matter. Racy was worse. She begged her ayah to go
and see.
Carl was safe in his cot on the other side of the room, forgetting his
baby troubles in happy slumber. So the ayah, who fully shared her little
mistress's anxiety, ventured outside the curtained screen, or purdah, as
they called it, which was drawn half across the open doorway. The room
was large and lofty. It was at the corner of the house, with doors
opening into the veranda on two sides. This helped to keep it bearable
in a usual way, with the help of a great white calico fan fixed to the
ceiling. This was called the punkah. Two of the native servants were
kept in the veranda all night to work it by turns. They were the punkah
coolies. One of them was fast asleep on his mat, and the other was
nodding as he lazily pulled the rope which moved the fan. They assured
the ayah all was right. No one was afraid of the jackals. They seldom
hurt any one unless they were interfered with.
Whilst she was speaking, Kathleen grew impatient, and, persuaded that
Racy was worse, she threw aside the thin sheet, her only covering, and
ran to the other door. She was not tall enough to look over the purdah,
and slipped softly into the bathroom adjoining. All the doors had been
set wide open, so she made no noise to waken her little brother. There
was no glass in the window of the bathroom. It was latticed, but it too
was wide open, and the blind was down. These blinds, or tatties, are
made of grass, and are kept damp to cool the air passing through them.
The troubled child managed to unfasten it and push it just a little
aside. There was the tent gleaming white beneath the spreading trees.
She could hear her mother singing some soothing lullaby. The two tall
carriage-horses were cropping the tender buds from the hedge of roses
which divided the garden from their paddock. She could see the gleam of
the lilied pool beneath the farthest trees, with the fire-flies dancing
round its banks like an ever-moving illumination. She heard the cries of
the tiger and the deep bellow of the vanquished buffalo, and ran back to
her bed in a fright, leaving the blind awry.
They were safe from the tiger; for a tiger always turns away from a
fence, and Mr. Desborough's grounds were surrounded by a high bank, with
a low stone wall on the top, shutting in garden, paddock, and
stable-yard, with only one gate for the carriage, and that was locked.
How had the wolf got in--that grim, gaunt creature, which still sat
washing its torn shoulder behind the rhododendron unseen by any one? It
had had a round with the buffalo before the tiger came out for his
midnight stroll, and got that ugly scratch from her antagonist's horn.
So the wolf left the buffalo to the tiger, and plunged into the stream
which fed the pool. The water was low, and the wolf was wary. The dive
was pleasant. A scramble up the opposite bank landed her in Mr.
Desborough's garden. Kathleen's peep-hole did not escape the wolf's
observation. She saw the child's white face, and thought of her
half-grown cubs. She dashed through the window, under the loosened
blind, leaped clear over the row of tall earthenware water-jars which
stood before it, and followed the child into the sleeping-room. Her
unerring scent guided her to the cot where Carl lay tossing. He had
thrown off the thin covering, and was fighting away the mosquito-net
which enveloped his cot. She seized the child in her teeth, and was
over the purdah with a bound.
Kathleen's wild shriek of terror called back the ayah.
The first fault gray of the summer twilight entered with her, and rested
on Kathleen's long fair hair, but the empty bed in the other corner was
still in shadow.
"Carl! Carl!" gasped Kathleen, and fainted in her nurse's arms.
The hubbub that arose among the coolies who were sleeping in the
veranda, the frantic cries of "Sahib! sahib!" brought Mr. Desborough to
the scene of dismay.
He had reloaded his gun, and snatched it up as he came, out of all
patience at the ill-timed noise, when he had enjoined silence on every
one whilst his darling boy was sleeping at last--a sleep which,
undisturbed, meant life.
Seeing nothing to account for the consternation among his servants, he
was on the point of refusing to listen to their entreaty.
"Shoot, sahib, shoot! a booraba by the nursery!"
"A booraba--a wolf!" he repeated, discharging his gun into the air with
the rapidity of lightning, as anger changed to fear.
"Unloose the dogs!" he cried, preparing to give it chase, as his keen
eye detected a break in the bushes of the garden, and the trampled heads
of the flowers, which marked the track of the wolf. He knew very well
that not one of his Hindu servants would dare to kill it, even if they
had the chance. It was a matter of conscience with them. It was a
thing they would not, dare not do, under any circumstances; but they
flew like the wind to obey his commands.
The hounds came bounding round him, and were soon on the trail of their
midnight visitor. They scented the wolf to the edge of the pool, and
then paused at fault, poking with their noses among the water-lilies,
and looking round at their master with short, angry barks.
Evidently the wolf had once more taken to the water, and the scent was
lost. Mr. Desborough saw something moving on the other side of the
pool, among the reeds and grasses.
He quickly readjusted the barrel of his gun, and was preparing to fire,
when his chuprassie, the Hindu servant who carried messages in the day
and watched the premises at night, caught his arm, exclaiming, "No, no,
sahib! no shoot booraba."
Mr. Desborough shook him off angrily, and levelled his gun.
"Shoot booraba, shoot baby!" cried out another of his servants, who had
just overtaken him. The poor fellow was trembling like a leaf.---"Come
to the beebee, Kathleen!" he entreated. "Come quickly!"
The truth flashed upon the father's mind--the wolf had already entered
his nursery. He rushed to his wife's tent. His servants stopped him.
"The mem-sahib" (for so they called their mistress)--"the mem-sahib
knows nothing yet. Spare her till we are sure."
One stride, and Mr. Desborough was over the veranda railing, parting the
chintz curtains of the nursery purdah. The ayah threw herself at his
feet, and began to tear her hair.
Now Mr. Desborough knew very well that his black servants exaggerated
dreadfully. Their excited imaginations magnified everything. It is the
way in the East, and a bad way it is. Having had two or three false
alarms, he never believed more than half they told him. Could he
believe them now? "Where is Kathleen?" he demanded sternly.
In another minute Kathleen's face was buried on his shoulder, as she
sobbed out her piteous story. "A dog, papa--a huge, horrid, lean, lank
dog--rushed out of the bathroom, and ran away with Carl."
*CHAPTER II.*
_*IN PURSUIT.*_
It was all too true. The punkah coolie was fanning an empty cot--the
child was gone.
With Kathleen fainting in her lap, even the ayah had not missed poor
Carl in the moment of her return. It was but a moment ere the alarm was
raised, yet the wolf had carried off her prey.
Charging the servants on no account to let the mother discover that her
boy was missing, until he returned, Mr. Desborough started in pursuit.
Like most English gentlemen in India, he was a keen sportsman, and loved
to hunt the wild hogs in the bamboo swamps, with a party of his friends,
and plenty of native trackers and beaters to find the game and drive it
out of the thickets.
But he dare not wait to call his friends to his help. He started forth
alone with his coolies, to find which way the wolf had gone.
Tall trees were growing on either side of the high-road, upon which his
gate opened. A broad ditch behind them drained the road in the rainy
season, when floods arose so easily. It was many feet deep; and now the
water ran low between its banks, dried up by the great heat. The jackal
pack had retired with the growing daylight; the tiger had slunk away
before the rising sun. Well might Mr. Desborough shudder and turn away
from the remnants of the dead buffalo, as he trembled for the fate of
his child. The country all around him was well cultivated. Rice and
dall (another kind of grain much grown by the Hindu villagers) covered
large fields along the course of the stream. They were interspersed by
clumps of trees and groves of date-palms growing amidst patches of
jungle and tangle.
But the increasing heat had reduced the watercourse to a succession of
glistening pools, connected by a muddy ditch.
Already the hounds were busy among the fringe of bushes which overhung
its margin. Mr. Desborough mounted his horse, and galloped after them,
with the broad white hat belonging to the lost child in his hand.
He soon came up with the dogs, and whistling them to his side, he leaned
down from his saddle, and made them smell the hat and sun-veil (or
puggaree) little Carl had worn the evening before.
They sniffed it well over, looked up in their master's face with their
keen, intelligent eyes, and started once again in swift pursuit.
They had passed the closed gates of the indigo factory, but encountered
one or two of the native workers there, who had risen with the sun, and
were watering their fields and gardens before the business of the day
began. The district was studded with wells. The water was drawn by
bullocks into huge skins.
But they left their skins on the brink of the well, and joined the
servants, who were throwing stones among the bushes, and howling with
all their might, to make the wolf show.
The noise brought out old Gobur from his little homestead by the
riverside. Mr. Desborough paused by the bamboo paling which surrounded
the little enclosure, which was neither yard nor garden, but partly
both. He knew the aged Hindu had been a chakoo, or look-out, in his
prime. The different hunting-parties in the neighbourhood used to hire
Gobur to go before them into the jungle, to watch which way the wild
beasts were roaming.
He was the very man to help him.
Within the bamboo fence was a tangle of wild roses and creepers, twining
about the roots of the luxuriant fruit-trees shading the low mud hut in
which the old man lived; a tiny well sparkled like crystal in the rosy
light.
The old man was gathering sticks to light his fire in the one clear
space beyond his trees.
He threw them to a graceful dusky figure just peeping out of the door of
the hut, and came to the sahib's assistance. The shouts of Mr.
Desborough's servants, as they hurled about the biggest stones they
could raise, had told him only too plainly what had happened.
All the native Bengalese knew well the dangerous propensity of the
wolves in May, and guarded their babies with double vigilance.
He knew the hat in the father's hand, and with scant words but many
gesticulations tried to make him understand the wolf was probably hiding
in one of the coverts near. If they scared her out, she might drop the
child; for it was that one dreaded month in all the year when the wolves
take home their prey alive to their half-grown cubs.
There was hope in the old man's words, and the father caught at it. Yet
he dared not fire into the dwarf cypress, where they all fancied the
wolf might be. No; his gun was useless on his shoulder, for he might
shoot his child. He could only follow the example of his coolies, and
join his shouts to theirs, until they wakened the echoes. Jackal, wolf,
and night-hawk had alike disappeared with the rising dawn. Gobur warned
him a tiger might yet be moving, as the morning breeze blew cool and
fresh after the sultry night.
"Well, Desborough," demanded the cheery voice of an English neighbour,
"up with the sunrise, like myself, to catch a mouthful of fresher air
after frying indoors all night? But what on earth is all this row?"
The speaker was an English officer who was taking his morning ride
betimes, foreseeing still greater heat as the day advanced. He was
followed by his syce, or native groom.
"The heat has done it," he exclaimed, as he heard the father's piteous
tale. "The streams are drying up among the hills, and the wild beasts
are driven to the cultured plains to seek for water. I heard a tiger
grunting all night in the river; many may be lingering in the thicket
for their mid-day sleep. Poor fellow! you'll see your baby no more."
The kind-hearted major turned his head away, he could not look the
distracted father in the face, as he added, "Be a man, Desborough.
Thank God for this fresh breeze; it will save your other child--think of
that."
But his syce pressed forward, with a low salaam, to the unhappy sahib,
to assure him he heard the cry of a child from the grass by the river,
pointing as he spoke to a waving forest of graceful feathery blades,
full twenty feet high.
"Cries of monkeys!" interrupted his master angrily, provoked to see his
poor friend tantalized with hopes which seemed to him so utterly
delusive.
He reined in his horse by his side, and tried to reason with him on the
probable fate of his child. They passed a group of sleepy vultures,
perched upon a boulder stone. If the poor baby had been dropped living
amidst the fields, how could it escape destruction? Even Mr. Desborough
was afraid to place much trust in the syce's words, with the
ever-increasing chattering of monkeys and screaming of birds. He looked
at the wide plains around him, and at the great herds of graceful,
delicate-limbed, smoke-coloured cattle, which were now being slowly
driven out to pasture. For the brief tropical twilight was over, and
day had fairly begun. The air was full of cries. The voices of the
night had but given place to the myriad voices of the day. Was it
possible for any one to distinguish between them? He heard, or seemed
as if he heard, the shriek of his child mingling with every sound, and
he knew it was not real. He heard it amidst the bellow of the fierce,
ungainly-looking buffaloes, who were marching forth in troops from many
a native village, followed by flocks of goats and bleating sheep.
With a hope which Mr. Desborough said hoarsely "was no hope," he rallied
his men to beat the huge thicket of grass, and drive out any living
thing lurking within it. Afraid of hurling stones at a venture into
such a tangled mass, the coolies armed themselves with long sticks,
which they struck with a sharp, ringing sound on the bark of the nearest
trees. A scampering was heard. The grass swayed hither and thither.
There was a cry.
"Nothing but the scream of a frightened pig," persisted the major. "It
is the very spot for a wild boar's lair."
He reined in his horse, and stationed himself where he could command a
good view of the thicket. Mr. Desborough had chosen his post already, on
the opposite side, and was watching as if he were all eye, all ear. Old
Gobur had gone round to the back of the thicket. Nothing could escape
them rushing from it.
"Not too near," shouted the major to his friend. "Have a care for your
own life! No one knows yet what it is we have dislodged."
As they watched the heaving grass, another cry arose in the distance,
prolonged and hideous. But the friends knew well what it meant. A
party of travellers were approaching, and their tired bearers were
calling out for a relay of men from the village to come and take their
places.
"Ho, coolie, coolie, wallah! ho-o-o-o-o!" seemed to ring through the air
from all points, confusing every other sound. Mr. Desborough's eye
never moved from the heaving mass before him. Out rushed a whole family
of wild pigs--a "sounder," as the major called it. They were led by a
grim old boar with giant tusks, the very picture of savage ferocity. He
glared around him, ready to charge the enemy who had dared to disturb
him. He was followed by pigs of every age and size, from a venerable
sow, tottering along from her weight of years, to squealing, squeaking
infants, who could scarcely keep pace with their mothers. Oh, the
screaming and the grunting, the snorting and chasing, as the whole
family of pigs rushed across the opening towards the nearest mango grove
or tope!
Aware of the danger of facing such a formidable charge, both gentlemen
wheeled round, and prepared to fire if necessary. The major was
inwardly groaning for the boar-spear that was standing idle in the
corner of his bungalow. He looked up, and perceived the party of
travellers coming along one of the narrow paths which divided the
rice-fields, just in front of the bristling array of fiery eyes and
curling tails. He saw a lady's dandy--that is, a kind of canoe-shaped
seat with a canopy--carried on two men's shoulders. There it was in the
line of the angry pigs. The danger to the unwary occupants was
imminent. The little cavalcade had halted in dismay. The major thought
of the naked legs of the bearers, who wore nothing but their white
calico waist-cloths and cotton turbans, and galloped to the rescue,
firing as he rode, to make the old boar change his course.
The weary bearers shrank back in terror, raising a wild howl for
assistance, when a small lad, who was riding a little pony in the rear,
pressed forward through the standing rice which had hitherto concealed
him, and planted himself in the front of his companions, with no better
defence than a huge bough he had broken from the nearest tree.
"Well done, my young hero!" cried the major as he rode up to them and
waited; for dandy and bearers had retreated behind the screen which the
green ears afforded, and safety was best secured by silence. The
furious boar came on, foaming and champing his enormous tusks; but the
well-timed shots urged him forward. He crossed the path of the
travellers within a dozen yards of the hole into which the boy had
pushed them, with nothing but the growing rice-straw for a shelter. The
stampede of the pigs passed over. The boy still stood sentinel behind
his bough.
"Trying the trick of Dunsinane," said the major, with a laugh he
intended to prove reassuring to the unseen occupant of the dandy.
"Well content if they do take me for a young mango sapling," answered
the little stranger, in the shy, blunt tones of an English school-boy.
His broad sun-hat hid every bit of his face except the firm-set white
lips. The major had seen enough. He dismounted, and assisted in
lifting the dandy out of the rice. The blades were higher than his
head, and the ground was more than muddy, for the field was undergoing
its morning irrigation from the nearest tank.
"Tie-tara! tie-tara!" cried the black partridges they had
unceremoniously disturbed. The birds, with a tameness which astonished
the young travellers, fluttered about among the rice-stalks, pecking at
the curtains of the dandy.
"Oliver, Oliver! where are you?" entreated a girlish voice from within.
"Safe, my dear young lady, quite safe," reiterated the major. "Let me
ask if you were intending to change coolies at Noak-holly," pointing as
he spoke in the direction of the village nearest to the indigo factory.
"You had better join forces with us, as we were the unfortunate cause of
your alarm, having dislodged those pigs whilst searching for a lost
child."
"A lost child!" re-echoed the voice within. "Oliver, Oliver, can we
help to find it?"
At that moment a great shout of triumph arose around the grass clump,
and with one accord the little party pressed forward to ascertain its
cause.
The sharp report of a gun sent the major spurring in advance. Had his
friend forgot his caution? How had he dared to fire?
Another moment and he saw Mr. Desborough wheel round, raise himself
slightly in his stirrups, and discharge his second barrel at a dusky
speck emerging from the tufted grass. The tall blades swayed and
quivered with the report. There was a smothered shuffling sound, a
heavy thud upon the ground, a rustling in the quivering grasses. The
native grooms ran forward eagerly, and dragged out the body of a
satiated wolf.
"A cool shot, Desborough," observed the major.
"It may save another parent such a pang as mine, but it cannot give me
back my child," groaned Mr. Desborough.
*CHAPTER III.*
_*HOW THE SEARCH ENDED.*_
Their work was not yet done. There were many narrow paths leading into
the clump, which the wild beasts had made for their own convenience.
Some of the grass had been cut down by the wild boar's tusks, and some
of it had been trampled under-foot. Mr. Desborough dismounted,
determined to penetrate the tangled mass, to see if any vestige of his
little darling was to be found there.
The major followed him; old Gobur entered by another path.
"Let me go with you," entreated Oliver, as the coolies set down his
sister's dandy under a tree, and flung themselves upon the ground to
rest, waiting until some of the men in the nearest village should answer
their summons, and present themselves according to custom, prepared to
take their places.
Oliver had already picked up enough Indi to make his request
intelligible; but forcing his way into the twisted grass was very
trying. There were sudden drops into holes and unexpected scrambles up
steep banks; whilst the twisted stalks, interlaced with most luxuriant
wild-flowers, presented an impervious wall on either side, diversified
by tufts of wild arrowroot and an occasional bramble. Now and then old
Gobur paused to point out a porcupine's burrow, or to drag his young
companion aside, as a hissing snake wound its green length across the
path; whilst the impudent monkeys chattered and screamed as they swung
themselves high over Oliver's head, rejoicing in the sudden departure of
their more formidable neighbours the great pig family. Bright and
beautiful birds peeped at him out of their nests, unscared, with that
happy boldness common to all the feathered tribes in India; because no
Hindu boy would ever dream of hurting or teasing any living thing. As
for old Gobur, he darted about like a monkey, dragging Oliver along with
him until they reached a sort of grassy tent in the very centre of the
clump. It was the wild-hog's lair, which they love to make in the midst
of "thatching-grass," as Gobur called it.
The boy went down on his hands and knees and crept inside.
It was a sort of grassy tent which its hoggish owner had made by cutting
down some of the grass with his teeth. One half he had trampled
under-foot, and the other half he had heaved aloft with his head, as he
walked round and round in a circle, until his grassy cave was complete.
An aspiring porcupine was just disputing with a giant rat which of the
two had the better right to this deserted mansion, when Oliver poked in
his head. Forthwith the rat, with his twelve-inch length of tail
switching from side to side, made a grab at his hair; and the porcupine,
bristling with spears, rushed at him. Oliver received the charge on his
arm, which he hastily extended to save his face.
Gobur pulled him backwards; but the resolute boy refused to cry out,
although the blood was streaming from his elbow to his wrist.
Oliver was wofully crestfallen at this unexpected disaster. There was
nothing for it but to retrace his steps.
His silken shirt was torn to shreds, and his hat was left in pawn with
the rat. His knees were bruised, with slipping into holes and crawling
out again.
Old Gobur began to think it wiser to extricate his unknown companion
than to continue a search which he knew to be utterly hopeless. When
they got free of the grass at last, it was some small consolation to
Oliver to find they had penetrated farther into the thicket than any one
else. Mr. Desborough and the major owned themselves baffled, and were
now trusting to the sagacity of the dogs.
Poor Oliver's appearance attracted Mr. Desborough's attention.
"Who is that boy?" he asked.
"A young stranger who joined in the search and got scratched by a
sahee," explained the grooms.
Such being the case, Anglo-Indian ideas of hospitality compelled Mr.
Desborough to offer him a bath and breakfast if he would return with
them to Noak-holly and have his arm bound up.
The major turned surgeon, and offered to do the job for him on the spot.
He had taken to the boy, and wanted to know a little more about him.
One of the syces pinned up a large leaf with thorns, and fetched some
water in it from the nearest well. The major tore his own handkerchief
into strips, and bound up the lacerated arm with a wet bandage.
Taking the opportunity to satisfy his curiosity at the same time, he
quickly ascertained that Oliver St. Faine and his sister Bona had come
out to join an uncle, a deputy-judge, who was to have sent to meet them.
They had travelled from Calcutta in a big box, with shutters in the
sides, so the boy asserted, with a grimace at the recollection.
"Oh, of course," remarked the major; "that was what we call a
_dak-gharri_, our Eastern equivalent to a post-chaise. Why did you
leave it?"
"Because we were to leave at the last government bungalow, and take a
short cut across the country to my uncle's; but it seems to be one of
those short things which grow longer with cutting," answered the boy
dryly. "There has been a muddle and a mistake. The gentleman who took
care of us on our journey could come no farther, and some one was to
have met us. But that some one did not come; so he got the pony for me,
and hired these fellows to carry my sister, and I believe they have lost
their way."
"Then we will put you in it again. Come on with us to Noak-holly; and
when I have done all I can in this melancholy business to help poor
Desborough, I will take you myself to Judge St. Faine in the cool of the
evening," said the major.
Kathleen was watching for her father's return. Her sad eyes grew bright
with excitement and hope as she heard the gate open. She was sitting by
the gardener, in the midst of a heap of roses and carnations which he
had just flung down, on the shady side of the veranda; for India is a
very land of flowers. He had brought in his baskets full, as usual, to
adorn the rooms, and was sitting cross-legged in his snowy turban,
weaving them with his dexterous fingers into wreaths and bouquets of
surpassing loveliness. But the sweet perfume and the fresh, cool touch
of the leaves, which Kathleen loved so well, had lost their charm. The
roses fell from her lap, and she trampled recklessly upon the glorious
azaleas with which he had been trying to divert her.
She sprang into her father's arms. "Horace is better!" she cried. "He
has slept; he will get well, papa. But have you found Carl?"
Her father pressed her to him and turned his head away as he answered,
"We have been searching everywhere. No, darling; we have not found him
yet. These people must all have breakfast. There! go to that young
lady. In mamma's absence I must leave her to you.--I dare not tell her
the worst," he added in a low aside to the major as he turned towards
the tent, where the hardest task of all awaited him.
In shy obedience to her father's wishes, Kathleen followed the major to
the gate. As Bona St. Faine was lifted out of her dandy, she too
whispered something about the sincere sympathy of a stranger, and her
exceeding reluctance to intrude at such a time.
The major thought it a pretty little speech from a stranger; so he
engaged her forthwith to do her best to comfort his little fairy
Kathleen.
Bona promised readily; and Oliver, who gave no promise, did still more.
They took the little girl between them, and would have led her to the
house; but she hung back, intent upon the coolies, who were bringing
home the dead wolf. She slipped her hand away from Miss St. Faine and
ran to the gate.
"Fetch her back, Oliver," whispered his sister. "It is dreadful to let
her see that brute. You say it has devoured her brother."
But he was too late to prevent it. Kathleen was peeping through the
iron-work of the gate.
"It is the wolf," he said gently. "Your father shot it. It will never
frighten you again. Come and tell us all about it."
"I can't," persisted Kathleen. "Let me look." She laid her hand on the
iron. It was so hot to the touch in that burning sunshine it almost
blistered her fingers; but she did not heed that. "Did papa shoot the
wolf?" she asked, with a painful catch in her breath between each word.
"Then where is Carl?"
Oliver dare not tell her, for he had heard what her father had said to
the major; and being of a straightforward turn of mind, who naturally
answered yes or no to every inquiry--"I will tell you" or "I will not
tell you"--he was quite at a loss for a reply, not having the least idea
how to evade a question.
"Why don't you speak?" she asked desperately.
Oliver muttered something, and creaked the gate, so that she could not
hear what he said.
Out she flew panting, Oliver after her.
"What could he do that for!" exclaimed his sister, considerably
chagrined. "How just like a boy! He always is so stupid. I believe he
wanted to have a look at the wolf himself."
The syces had laid the dead animal on the bank which ran round Mr.
Desborough's compound, and were standing under the shadow of the garden
trees considering it. They called to the gardener to bring them some
fern leaves and bushes to cover the wolf from the sun, until they knew
whether the sahib wished to preserve its skin.
It was a savage-looking brute, young, for its prevailing colour was a
tawny fawn, with a little gray on its back and inside its legs.
"That is not the horrid dog that ran away with Carl!" exclaimed
Kathleen. "It was not a buff dog; it was a gray dog, with a great
scratch on its shoulder. I should know it anywhere. I see it now--I
always see it--stealing out of the bathroom."
The gardener pressed in between and threw his load of fern leaves over
it, to prevent her seeing any more of the fierce booraba. Her own
favourite syce, who drove her out in her little carriage every evening,
tried to lead her away. Old Gobur stopped him.
"Let the little beebee [the little lady] look."
"It will only terrify her; and the sahib will be angry," urged the syce.
"Stop!" persisted Gobur, speaking in his soft Indi, which Oliver tried
hard to follow; and then the old man explained--"The colour of a wolf
tells its age: they all turn gray as they grow old. If a gray wolf
carried off the child, it has carried it off alive. We must search
again."
At this moment Bona St. Faine appeared at the gate, and taking little
Kathleen's hand in hers, led her resolutely away, threatening the
servants with their master's displeasure for suffering such a child to
see the dead wolf.
"How wrong of you, Oliver!" she said, glancing at her brother
reproachfully.
To avoid her upbraiding, which Oliver felt he deserved, he stepped
behind old Gobur, who was forcing open the wolf's mouth and examining
its teeth. He sprang up excitedly and pointed to the little bits of
matted hair sticking about them.
"What is that?" he asked triumphantly. "Where did that come from? The
buffalo hide. The wolves as well as the jackals follow the tiger to
feast on what he leaves, as every hunter knows. The little beebee is
right. We must search again."
How Oliver listened! These dark-skinned men, who were chattering round
him so fast, had lived in the midst of wild beasts all their lives.
One was telling of a wolf which had stolen a baby from its mother's arm
as she lay sleeping.
The gardener hurried away to find his master. The coolies who had
carried Bona's dandy joined in the eager discussion; some were
contradicting the old man's assertion, others were asking questions none
of them could answer. Had any one heard the child cry? No, not even
the coolies in the veranda. Why, they kept on fanning the empty cot!
The child had been spirited away in its sleep. Only a clever old wolf
could have done it.
"That scratch on its shoulder--was the blood dropping from it?" asked
Gobur, almost breathlessly. "Wherever a drop has fallen you will find
the black ants covering it by this time. Run and look."
Up sprang Mr. Desborough's own syce, followed by half-a-dozen others,
gesticulating and talking all at once at the top of their voices.
"Stop that row!" exclaimed Mr. Desborough, who was bending over the cot
of his other little boy, trying to prepare its mother for the dread
disclosure.