"I can understand," she said, "how you might possibly shoot the tiger, but I thought one needed furnaces, tall chimneys, and things, to melt up bronze and brass."
"Dead right," he answered, readily. "You see, you've got such a grasp on things that I never cease to be surprised—and delighted. I've engaged quite a chimney already."
She forced herself to continue the conversation, if only by way of ignoring the personal element of his answer.
"Engaged a chimney?"
"You'll see about that, later. If getting the tiger were only half as easy as some of the other things I expect to accomplish, I'd certainly be tickled clean to death."
She felt—she almost knew, indeed—-that she and her love were classified among the things he expected to "accomplish" so easily at last, and her hot resentment burned hotter. She was tempted to flash out her wildest cry of the loathing—the bitter, eternal loathing—his words had begotten in her bosom. She was tempted again to a desperate wish that the tiger might rend him in pieces—as she would do if ever he touched her again. But she dared not trust herself to speak, or even to show, by the slightest sign, that his threat was comprehended. She clung in desperation to the subject she felt to be safe.
"Then—you do think the tiger dangerous—hard, at least, to kill?"
"Well, I wouldn't call him exactly plum pudding and gravy."
"Your cannon would kill him, though, of course?"
"If he'd pose in front of the muzzle, a rod or so away."