“But I say, Tom,” he exclaimed, “get the major to let you go to the tiger-hunt.”
“Do you think you can get leave?” said the ensign.
“I mean to try it on, my boy. The cap is sure to be huffy, on account of our last affair; but nothing venture, nothing gain, and I mean to go, somehow or another, so tigers beware. What are you laughing at?”
“The idea of you shooting a tiger,” said Tom Long. “That’s all.”
“I daresay I could if I tried,” said Bob shortly.
“I daresay you could,” said Long, “but we’ll see. We have to get leave first.”
“That’s soon got,” said Bob Roberts. “Depend upon it, I shall be there.”
“And I, too,” said Tom Long; and the young fellows parted, each of them in secret vowing that he would have the skin of the tiger he meant to shoot, carefully dressed, lined with blue satin and scarlet cloth, and present it to Rachel Linton as a tribute of respect.
But the tiger had first of all to be shot.