“I speck it’s on the tiger.”
“So your plan didn’t succeed?” Abe solemnly skimmed a ladle full of melted wax from the water, and poured it into a bamboo mould.
“Berries is terrible skerce this season. Time was when a body could gather a bagful in a day from the bushes above the beach; but now—lor’, everything’s different now. This very earth’s agoing downhill—it’s getting played out.”
“Are you mixing any tiger fat with that wax, Uncle, to bind it?”
“Maybe goose fat would be better, sonny; have you got any to spare?”
“That tiger must be a cunning beast if he’s got the better of you, Uncle!”
He shook his head gravely. “He’s no tiger. He’s jes’ a ole witch prowling aroun’, that’s what he is.”
“Eh?”
“Yes. You believe me, that’s what ole Black Sam is. I worked out a plan to catch him, supposin’ I could find where he put up in the daytime, and what path he took on setting out in the night, for you know these critturs in the woods don’t go along anyhow, but follow paths jes’ as you or me would, and some of these paths they’re more fond of than others. Well, I kep’ watch on that ole man baboon, and when I see him strolling along outside the kloof I up and follered him. He knew, bless you, what I was after, and the way he led me into the dark of that kloof was a caution; so silent he went, and so careful to take the proper track. Bymby he stopped and pointed—yes, pointed with his finger at the ground—then he jumped for a bough, and there he sat grinning an’ working his eyebrows. Well, blow me, ef there wer’n’t a spoor of the tiger where he pointed, and squinting along through the underbush I see a clean walk which the tiger had made—the sides of the trees worn smooth and the ground jes’ trodden down. That was enough. So I went home and made a pill of meat, with enough poison in it to kill a museum full of stuffed critturs. Nex’ morning I went down, and if that baboon hadn’t a almost stopped me by force I’d a run bang into that tiger.”
“Was he dead?”