"But a tiger can kill an ox, sir," protested Plunkett.
"Kill it! Ay, with a single blow of his paw! And drag it away to his lair. That's one thing. To toss the ox over his shoulder would be another thing. I doubt if the biggest Bengal tiger would quite accomplish that with a full-grown ox. At all events, the dragging is the more usual plan."
"Mighty unpleasant customer to meet in the open," said Plunkett.
He told a story of Indian life.
"He's quiet enough now, and just like an enormous striped cat," said Marigold.
"Cat-like in his ways too," responded the gentleman.
He told a story of Indian life—of an unfortunate man who had fallen a victim. The man's comrades, safe in surrounding treetops, but powerless to help him, because unarmed, had watched the tragedy—had seen the tigress playing with her victim as a cat plays with a mouser—teaching her cubs, as a cat teaches her kittens in similar circumstances. She did not kill the man outright, but only disabled him a little. Then she would let him run, and the cubs—kitten-like—would scramble after him; and if he showed any chance of escaping from the cubs, the tigress would bound up and pat him down again, before she let him have another try, and then another chase.
"It's an awful story, I think," said Mrs. Plunkett, shuddering. Quite a little crowd had gathered round to listen.
"And those men safe in the tops of the trees weren't English. I'm glad of that, anyway," said Plunkett.