"Who has let loose my tiger?" demanded Sir Pimpleton Pettibones of his butler, whom he had summoned to the breakfast parlour by the sound of the bell in a manner that indicated great impatience. "Who has dared to let him loose? I locked him up last night for robbing the larder, and this morning he is missing; where is he?"
The butler obsequiously bowed. "Extremely sorry, Sir Pimpleton; but really, Sir Pimpleton, I am ignorant and innocent of the whole affair."
"Somebody must have let him out," responded the irascible baronet, "and I shall be too late for the meet. Let search be instantly made—such a tiger as that is not to be caught every day."
The butler bowed and withdrew; whilst his master, arrayed in a scarlet hunting-coat, sat down to his repast, venting imprecations upon the tiger, whom he declared it was his determination to catch before he should accomplish further mischief. This happened at a beautiful mansion in Kent, whither Sir Pimpleton had gone down for the hunting season, taking his tiger (who was a great favourite) with him. Whilst the search was still in progress, word was brought to the baronet that the "creature" had been seen early that morning in the stable-yard, and a beautiful swift-footed pony was missing, which—as the tiger had shown great partiality to horse-flesh—it was supposed he had made away with.
"Hillio—hillio!—quick—saddle every horse in the stables," shouted the baronet, "we'll scour the country—the game is up—hark forward—hark forward!—yoicks, tally ho!" and away he went with grooms and keepers down to the stalls, where he himself saddled his best hunter, and in a few minutes he was flying away across the park, with a long straggling tail like a comet after him, towards the village.
"Have you seen my tiger?" demanded the baronet, reining up his gallant steed in front of the Pettibones Arms, and addressing the landlord—a red, platter-faced man of some seventeen stone; "have you seen him? he broke cover and stole away this morning—he must be prowling somewhere about—have you seen him?"
"Lor love yer honour, no," responded mine host, with a grin of astonishment and stupidity. "Them tigers are thirsty sowls; but he's never been here to drink."
"Hillio, hillio!" shouted Sir Pimpleton, as his attendants came riding up, "handle your whips and follow me;" and dismounting, he entered the hostelry, where the good dame was busy in culinary operations. "Where's my tiger?" was again the cry. "He's crouching somewhere here."
"Now laws ha' mercy upon us, I hope not, yer honour!" exclaimed the old dame in dreadful alarm. "What, a real tiger, yer honour? Be em a live un or a stuffed un?"
"Fool!" vociferated the baronet, "a live one to be sure, with large goggle eyes and a fang tooth. I must find his lair." The entire premises were examined, but the tiger was not there.