Greatly to the joy of Moondah they managed to kill not a few wild pigs.
In a bit of scrub or bush about an acre in extent they were told one day that a panther was hid. This was a chance not to be missed. Stake nets were planted at the side next to the hill where doubtless the beast’s cave lay, the guns were well positioned, and the beaters began their work. Mr Panther, however, did not see the fun of going into that net. Disturbed at last, he quitted cover by making a wild rush at the beaters themselves; two were rolled over, and one severely lacerated in the leg. Fred was the nearest gun, and he wounded the panther in the shoulder, without stopping his way however. Well, a wounded panther must attack whatever with life in it happens to come his way. In this instance it was an old grey boar, who was coming round a corner, wondering to himself what all the row meant. The panther repented his rashness next minute, when the boar’s tusks were fleshed in his neck. It was a curious battle, brought to a speedy termination by Chisholm’s bone-crusher. His monster bullet whizzed through the panther’s body, and pierced the breast of the huge boar, and they fell as they fought.
“Now,” said Lyell, “I do call that a good shot. Bravo! Chisholm.”
Chapter Fifteen.
Elephant Hunting—The Elephant and Tiger—The Tusker’s Charge—The Runaway Elephant—The Man-eating Tigress.
Those of my readers who have followed me so far in my history of the wanderings and adventures of our heroes cannot but have observed that in the character of Frank Willoughby there was a certain amount of what, to give it the right name, must be called foolhardiness. But poor Frank’s last adventure in the Indian jungle taught him a lesson which he is not likely to forget while life lasts.