"It is too bad, Surajah," Dick said, as he looked down; "you ought to have woke me. I will unfasten these blankets before I get down. It will save time after breakfast."
Half an hour later, they were again on their way, and shortly came upon a boy herding some goats. He looked doubtfully at them, but, seeing that they were not Mysorean soldiers, he did not attempt to fly.
"How far is it to the next village, lad?" Surajah asked; "and which is the way? We are shikarees. Are there any tigers about?"
"Plenty of them," the boy said. "I drive the goats to a strong, high stockade every evening; and would not come out, before the sun rose, for all the money they say the sultan has.
"Make for that tree, and close to it you will see a spring. Follow that down. It will take you to the village."
After walking for six hours, they came to the village. It was a place of some little size, but there were few people about. Women came to the doors to look at Surajah and Dick as they came along.
"Where are you from?" an old man asked, as he came out from his cottage.
"From down the mountain side. Tigers are getting scarce there, and we thought we would come over and see what we could do, here."
"Here there are many tigers," the old man said. "For the last twenty years, the wars have taken most of our young men away. Some are forced to go against their will; for when the order comes, to the head man of the village, that the sultan requires so many soldiers, he is forced to pick out those best fitted for service. Others go of their own free will, thinking soldiering easier work than tilling the fields, besides the chance of getting rich booty. So there are but few shikarees, and the tigers multiply and are a curse to us.
"We are but poor people, but if you choose to stay here for a time, we will pay something for every tiger you kill; and we will send round to the other villages, within ten miles, and doubtless every one of them will contribute, so that you might get enough to pay you for your exertions."