“There is one, sahib—so say the kansamah and the head man—a full-grown tiger, in his prime.”
“I will shoot him.” Four words, said quietly—not “Do you think,” or “I would like to,” or “Perhaps.” They were perfectly definite and without a trace of excitement; yet this man had never seen a tiger.
“Very good, sahib.” That, too, was spoken in a level voice, but Mahommed Gunga's eyes and the other man's met once again above his head.
“We will stay here four days; by the third day there will be time enough to have brought an elephant and—”
“I will go on foot,” said Cunningham, quite quietly. “Tomorrow, at dawn, risaldar-sahib. Will you be good enough to make arrangements? All we need to know is where he is and how to get there—will you attend to that?”
“Ha, sahib.”
“Thanks. I wonder if my supper's ready.”
He turned and walked away, with a little salute-like movement of his hand that was reminiscent of his father. The two Rajputs watched him in heavy-breathing silence until the little group of lights, where the horse-tents faced the old dak-bungalow, swallowed him. Then:
“He is good. He will do!” said the black-beard who had brought the lamp.
“He is good. But many sahibs would have acted coolly, thus. There must be a greater test. There must be no doubt—no littlest doubt. Alwa and the others will ask me on my honor, and I will answer on my honor, yes or no.”