“Is that so?”
“’Tw’d give substance to it; bind all these yer scents together, and make ’em settle down to their work instead of fighting against each other. This euphorby juice is mighty cantankerous, and is given to blisterin’ unless it’s toned down by tiger fat.”
“Well, Uncle, that black tiger is still alive.”
“Hum! I don’t know that the black tiger is good for this purpose. What do you say?”
“I know nothing about it; but, if any tiger is good, I should say a black tiger, by reason of his greater strength, should suit best, and, if you remember, you said you had a plan for trapping him. I believe he’s still in the big kloof.”
“Yes, he’s there. That ole man baboon’s been aroun’ here, and maybe he’s got some notion of showing me where the black fellow takes his snooze. I’ll jes’ think over it.”
“If you want any help I can bring along some dogs and a couple of guns?”
“Dogs, eh! Seems to me that tiger’s too smart for dogs. He chawed up one of yours. I don’t want no dogs, sonny, and if this tiger is to be downed, he’s got to be downed by cunning. You leave him to me.”
After the lapse of a week I rode over to see how the old man had succeeded, and found him peacefully employed boiling down wax berries for the manufacture of candles for his own lighting—the rheumatism, apparently, having been vanquished.
“Hallo! Abe,” I said, taking a look round the room, “where’s the tiger skin?”