“The sport, to be sure, man,” replied Sir Curry; “and we are obliged to be very strict in the application of our game laws; for the rascally poachers will often destroy the game.”
“I should think the game more likely to destroy the poachers,” observed his guest with a smile.
“That’s their look out,” said the other. “I only know it’s a most difficult thing to preserve tigers. My tenants shoot them if they happen to attack their flocks; and the peasants combine to kill them, for the purpose of procuring their skins. But our game laws punish the scoundrels severely if they are caught in the fact—imprisonment and hard labour for every offence, and very just these laws are. Why, gentlemen would have no sport if they were to allow their game to be cut up by every fellow who has a desire for sport, or thinks his life or the lives of his cattle of more value than a tiger. I have been at great expense with my preserves; for the animal has long been exceedingly scarce: and I have improved the breed a great deal by importing some new varieties. The cross which has ensued has altered the game wonderfully. They are infinitely more savage, far more daring, and in speed and cunning are not to be excelled. In fact, my tigers have a reputation all over the country; and the ablest hunters are very glad to get a day’s sport with me, as they know they will meet with the best tigers that are to be found any where.”
“And how do you hunt them?” inquired Oriel.
“On elephants principally,” replied Sir Curry. “The hunter sits upon an elephant, with an air gun, fixed upon a swivel, before him. These animals are well trained. I’ve got some of the finest elephants in the world, thorough-bred—and they go into the preserve, and rouse the tiger from his cover. If he goes off, the elephant follows; if he shows fight, the hunter fires: and sometimes the game is not killed till fine sport has been enjoyed—a man or two killed, and other exciting pleasures enjoyed.”
“And did these skins belong to animals of your killing?” inquired Tourniquet, who had been an attentive listener to the conversation, as he turned over two or three large tiger skins.
“Yes, I killed them, and fine sport they gave,” said his host. “That one you have in your hand belonged to a noble fellow. The day in which he was killed was a memorable one. My late neighbour, Lord Muligatawny, was very proud of his preserves, and used to boast he had the best tigers in India. So to take the conceit out of his lordship, I invited him to a hunt on my grounds. Well, he came on his elephant, for he enjoyed the sport as much as any man, and we proceeded together with our attendants to a jungle in which I knew the greatest quantity of game was to be found. He and I kept close together, he boasting all the time of the superiority of his preserves, till as we entered this particular place, I thought it would be most advisable to be at a short distance from him, so we separated, but without my losing sight of him. Now Lord Muligatawny used a peculiar kind of snuff-box, and was a fierce looking sort of man; and he used to say that no tiger could ever look him in the face. He said the brute always bolted when he tried the experiment. Well, we saw lots of game, and had some capital sport, but as we were proceeding along in high spirits at our success, I started a magnificent animal. I had a shot at him, but was not near enough to do him any mischief. As the tiger was stealing off towards Lord Muligatawny, he fired; but whether it was his mismanagement of the gun, or proceeded from his elephant’s suddenly backing at the approach of the tiger, I cannot say; but certain it is Lord Muligatawny was tumbled off his elephant, and in another moment the tiger was upon him. ‘Now we shall see if the tiger will bolt,’ thought I; and he did bolt: but he bolted with Lord Muligatawny! He grasped his lordship by the nape of his neck at the time he was looking as fierce as a ferret, and flinging his body over his shoulder, he was out of sight before any one could get a shot at him.”
“And what became of him?” inquired Oriel.
“That was the last we ever saw of Lord Muligatawny,” replied Sir Curry. “But about a week afterwards I was hunting in the neighbourhood, when, after a capital run, and a desperate contest, I succeeded in killing one of the finest tigers I ever saw. I had his body taken home to show him to my friends, and upon opening him, among the best part of a sheep, a dog’s hind quarters, and a litter of sucking pigs, we found the identical snuff-box of poor Lord Muligatawny, proving beyond the possibility of a doubt that not only had the tiger bolted with his lordship, but that he had had the audacity to make a bolt of him. But come and hunt—come and hunt—I will show you some capital sport.”