Nuddoo’s eager protestations, and Algy’s expostulations, were loud and long, and during them a stern-faced old hag placed her hand on Sassi’s shoulder, drew her out of the crowd, and the episode was closed.
Our expedition that night was, as usual, fruitless. We climbed into our tree platform, the now accustomed buffalo dozed in his place undisturbed. Evidently Algy’s mind dwelt on the recent scene at the chowk, and he harangued me from time to time, in an excited whisper, on the subject of Sassi’s heroism, her wonderful beauty, and Nuddoo’s base suggestion. He was still whispering, when I fell asleep. And now it had come to our last day but one. Jones looked upon further effort as supreme folly. He wanted, for once, a night’s unbroken rest, and at six o’clock we left him lying on his string bed, on the flat of his back, smoking cigarettes and reading a two-shilling novel—a novel dealing with smart folk in high life—a book that carried his thoughts far, far from a miserable mud village in the C.P. and its living scourge. How I envied Jones! I would thankfully have excused myself, but Algy was my cousin; he had taken command of the trip, and of me, ever since we had quitted the great trunk road—and I was entirely under his orders.
Nuddoo was not above accepting a hint; this time our machan was lashed into a big pepul tree on the border of the forest, and the edge of a stream that had its home in the hills. We were about two miles from Karwassa as the crow flies, and, as we were rather early, we had ample time to look about us; the scene was a typical landscape in the Central Provinces. To our left lay the hills, covered with dense woodlands, from whose gloomy depths emerged the now shallow river, which trickled gently past us over its bed of dark blue rock and gravel. Beyond the stream, and exactly facing us, lay a vast expanse of grain—jawarri, gram, and vetches—as far as the eye could reach, the monotonous stretch being broken, here and there, by a gigantic and solitary jungle tree. To the right, and on our side of the bank, was an exquisite sylvan glade, a suitable spot to which the forest fairies might issue invitations to the neighbouring elves to “come and dance in the moonbeams.” Between the great trees, the waving crops, and the murmuring brook, I could almost have imagined myself in the midlands of England—save for certain tracks in the sand beneath our tree. Its enormous roots were twisted among rocks and boulders, and, where a spit of gravel ran out into the clear water, were many footprints, which showed where the bear, hyena, tiger, and jackal had come to slake their thirst. I noticed that Nuddoo seemed restless and strange, and that his explanations and answers were incoherent, not to say foolish.
“This looks a likely enough place,” said Algy, with the confidence of a man who had been after tiger for years. “But, I say, Nuddoo, where’s the chap with the buffalo—where is our tie-up?”
“Buffalo never started yet—plenty time—coming by-and-by, at moonrise,” stammered Nuddoo; and, as I climbed into the machan, and he took his place next me, with our rifles, it struck me that Nuddoo was not sober. He smelt powerfully of raw whisky—our whisky—his lips were cracked and dry, and his hand shook visibly. What had he been doing?
“It will be an awful sell if there is no tie-up, and the tiger happens to go by,” said Algy, irritably.
“The gara will be here without fail, your honour’s worship. It will be all right, I swear it by the head of my son. Moreover, we will get the tiger—to-night he touches his last hour.”
There was no question that Nuddoo, for the first time in my experience, was very drunk indeed. Presently the full moon rose up and illuminated the lonely landscape, the haunted jungle, the crops, the glade, and turned the forest stream to molten silver. It was nine o’clock, and, whilst Nuddoo slumbered, Algy and I held our breath, as we watched a noble sambur stag come and drink below us. He was succeeded by an old boar, next came a hyena; it was a popular resort; in short, every animal appeared but the one we wanted—and he was undoubtedly in the neighbourhood, for the deer seemed uneasy.
It was already after ten, and Algy was naturally impatient, and eagerly looking out for our devoted “gara.” He and I were bending forward, listening anxiously; the forest behind us seemed full of stealthy noises, but we strained our ears in vain for the longed-for sound of buffalo hoofs advancing from the front. Nuddoo still slept soundly, and at last Algy, in great exasperation, leant over and shook him roughly.
“Ay,” he muttered, in a sleepy grunt, “it is all right, sahib, the gara will come without fail.”