Both boys held their breath, afraid that even the slightest sound might awaken the sleeping beast. Moments passed. Then, in a whisper, Biff asked, “What do we do now?”
Chuba’s answering whisper came down through the leaves. “We wait, Biff. All we can do. If we try to scare him away, he get mad, wait for us to fall out of tree and eat us.”
Chuba’s knowledge, Biff realized, was mixed up with superstition and tales handed down from one generation to another. Tigers, Biff knew, were man-eaters only in certain circumstances. A wounded tiger would attack a man. So would one so old that it could no longer get its food easily. Then, man, less quick, less nimble than the animals tigers usually fed on, could well become the evening meal of a tiger.
Biff looked down at the sleeping animal. Its sleek, glistening fur told him that this was a young tiger. Its white furry underbelly was puffed out. That tiger had had a good meal, Biff knew. Probably caught his breakfast just before daylight, and now he was having a nice nap in the sun.
“Is he still sleeping?” Chuba whispered.
“Like a baby after its morning bottle,” Biff whispered back. Biff didn’t think the tiger would sleep too long. Not as the morning sun rose higher, and its fiery rays burned down on the opening. Once they hit Mr. Tiger, the animal would move off to a shady spot and complete his rest.
As Biff watched the animal, the jungle suddenly came alive with the screeching, cawing, and screaming of hundreds of birds and animals.
The tiger sat up quickly. It rose to its feet, its long tail switching back and forth. Then it opened its mouth in a gaping yawn, showing glistening white teeth and fangs. It turned its head from side to side, looking to spot any danger.
“That noise from the monkeys,” Chuba called down. “Or maybe wildcats. They chasing the parrots. All very much mad at each other.”
“Good for them,” Biff called back. “They woke up our friend down there. I think old tiger’s going to move along.”