“There are no tigers here,” said Rob. “They are in India.”
“I know that. Striped ones they are, and bigger than these here. I’ve known ’em swim off from Johore across to Singapore—though they’re big cats—and then lie in wait for the poor Chinese coolie chaps and carry ’em off. They call these big spotted chaps tigers, though, out here; but they’re jaggers: that’s what they are. Call ’em painters up in Texas and Arizona and them parts north. Jaggered my eye out anyhow.”
“How was it?”
“I was shooting, and after lying in wait for one of the beggars for nights, I saw my gentleman—coming after a calf he was—and I shot him. ‘Dead!’ I says, for he just gave one snarly cry, turned over on his back, clawed about a bit, and then lay down on his side, and I went up, knife in hand, meaning to have his spotted skin.”
Shaddy stopped and laid his hand over the scar and empty eye cavity, as if they throbbed still.
“Well?” cried Rob eagerly.
“No; it wasn’t well, my lad. All the worst’s coming. He wasn’t dead a bit, and before I knew where I was, he sent my rifle flying, and he had me. It was one leap and a wipe down the face with his right paw, and then his jaws were fixed in my right shoulder, and down I went on my back. If I hadn’t twisted a bit he’d have torn me with his hind claws same as a cat does a great rat, and then I shouldn’t have been here to be your guide. As it was, he kicked and tore up the earth, and then he left go of my shoulder and turned over on his side, and died in real earnest.”
“The bullet had taken effect?”
“Nay, my lad; it was my knife. I thought it was my turn again, and, as I had it in my hand, I felt for his heart, and found it.”
“How horrible!”