“That’s all right,” said Vander Heyden; “he’s sure to truck them, if any one can. We may sit down again. I suppose you couldn’t see what they were, Hardy?”
“It was something crawling on four legs,” said Hardy, “and I caught a momentary glimpse of a spotted skin, but whether it was the kaross of a Zulu, or a real tiger, I can’t say.”
“The tigers are very bold,” said Vander Heyden, “in this country. I suppose they are not such formidable beasts as the tigers of Bengal, though.”
“No, indeed,” said Hardy. “If you had ever come into contact with them, you would know the difference.”
“Did you ever kill a tiger in Bengal?” asked Margetts.
“Why, no, Mr Margetts, but one very near killed me.”
“Did he? Tell us about it,” said Redgy.
“Well, it was very soon after I went to India, when I was quite a young man. There was a letter of importance to be taken to the officer in command at Meerut; there was no one at hand who could take it, and they were obliged to entrust it to me. I was to travel by what they call dak,—travelling all night in a palanquin on men’s shoulders, and resting during the hot hours of the day. We were travelling in the wildest part of the country, when one of the bearers put his head in between the curtains. ‘Would massa like to see a tiger?’ he said.
“I had been dozing, but I started up. ‘No,’ I said; ‘there are few things I should like to see less.’
“‘Massa see one if he like it. Very big tiger yonder!’