"Oh, awful—yes," agreed that lady.
But neither of them risked inviting the opinion of Maria. Her uncompromising nature was too well known for that. Nevertheless, unasked, she offered her criticism too: "Awful," she said, her podgy face unmoved, her blue eyes fixed upon the ceiling. And the whole room seemed to give a long, deep sigh.
Now, for the hero, this was decidedly an awkward moment; he had done his best and miserably failed. He was no story-teller, and they had found him out. None the less, however, he was a real hero. He faced the situation as a brave man should:
For his tale was mediocre,
And his face of yellow ochre
Took a tinge of saffron sorrow in his fright;
Yet he rose to the occasion,
Without anger or evasion,
And did his best to put the matter right.
"Tell me how you knew," he asked at length, facing the situation. "What made you guess?"
"Because, in the first place, you're not an atom like a tiger, anyhow," explained Judy.
"And you made the jungle so very dark," said Tim, "that you simply couldn't have seen the bananas falling."
"And we know you haven't got a tail at all," Maria added, clinchingly.
"Of course," he agreed; "your discernment does you credit, very great credit indeed. Few of the officials under me in India had as much."
Judy looked soothingly at him and stroked his sleeve. Somehow or other she divined, it seemed, he felt mortified and ashamed. He was a dear old thing, whatever happened.