"If the tiger will go away, you had better leave him alone," said Aunt Cynthia. "Your shot doesn't seem to have hurt him at all."
"Yes, it did," insisted Tom. "I hit him, for he jumped."
"But you only made him more angry; I am afraid we are not through with him yet."
The rifle was of the old-fashioned, muzzle-loading kind, and Aunt Cynthia gave what help she could to her nephew, as he began reloading it. From the powder flask she poured a charge down the barrel, upon which Tom pressed the conical bullet, wrapped about with a small bit of greased muslin. Then he had only to place a percussion-cap on the tube, and he was ready for business.
But before this stage of the proceedings was reached, something startling happened.
Jim Travers paid no heed to what his young friend was doing. Stooping over the burning wood in the fireplace, the flame of which was quite feeble, because the day was mild, he began fanning it with his hat. He was thus employed, and Tom was in the act of capping the rifle, when a crash against the nearest shutter made the building tremble.
The startled inmates stared trembling in each other's faces.
"It's the tiger!" whispered Mrs. Gordon, uttering a truth that was manifest to every one.
"He is determined to get at us," added Aunt Cynthia. "What shall we do?"
"I'll fetch him this time," was the confident response of Tom, "if I can only get a fair aim."