He stood for a few minutes longer, in the utter silence, listening for some movement from his enemy, but there was none. Then he began to hope that it had stolen away, and he moved slightly—drawing back to go in search of fresh lodgings. But at the first step there was a savage growl, such as might have been uttered by a magnified cat, and his fingers moved to press the trigger, as he stood firm, with the butt of the piece pressed to his shoulder, and his cheek against the stock.
The snarling ceased and all was dead silence again, while, oddly enough, the old story of the Irish soldier came to Lane’s mind:
“Please, sor, I’ve caught a Tartar prisoner.”
“Bring him along, then.”
“Please, sor, he won’t come.”
“Then come without him.”
“Please, sor, he won’t let me.”
For, in spite of his excitement and its accompanying alarm, Lane could not help smiling at his predicament. He knew that if he beat a retreat the beast would spring at him, and taking into consideration the fact that he would be better off if he took the offensive and advanced, he at once acted upon the latter course.
Taking a step forward, there was another savage snarl, and he aimed, as nearly as he could guess, at the spot whence it came, and waited, but the animal did not spring.
He moved forward again and there was another snarl—a pause—a slight movement—another snarl and a scratching noise, which meant the tearing at the bark of the trunk upon which the animal crouched.