“About twenty,” said the lad, colouring; “but, you see, I’ve had no practice.”
“You’ll get plenty here, and I’ll teach you the knack of bringing down snipe.”
“But you said something about big game,” said Stan hesitatingly. “What did you mean—pheasants—turkeys?”
“Pheasants—turkeys!” cried the manager scornfully. “There are plenty of pheasants in the woods, but I mean tigers.”
“Tigers?”
“Yes, my lad, tigers; hungry savages who carry off a poor Chinese labourer working in the fields now and then. There! wait a bit, and we’ll mix up a bit of sport with our work.”
That night Stan went to his bedroom and stood looking at the moon silvering the river, thinking that perhaps after all he might end by being good friends with the manager.
“He’s just like a chestnut,” thought the boy—“all sharp, prickly husk outside; good, rich brown skin under the husk; and inside all hard, firm, sweet nut. I say, it doesn’t do to judge any one at first sight. I wonder what he thinks of me. I hope he likes me, but I’m afraid not, for he seems disposed to sneer at me now and then.”