"He's broke up the whole show, that's what he's done," and Ben shook his fist at Mr. Stubbs's brother, while he tried to soothe his half-plucked hen.
"What are we goin' to do?" asked Toby, almost in despair.
"I know what I'm goin' to do," said Ben, as he again placed the hen under the basket; "I'm goin' to crawl under the barn an' try to catch that cat, an' then I'm goin' home with my hen."
It seemed to be the desire of all the partners to get home with what remained of their pets, and as Ben went under the barn on his hands and knees, Leander started off with his rabbits, Bob went to look for his calf, Reddy gathered up his bundle of paper, and Joe seized his pasteboard box, all going away where they could think over the ruin in solitude.
But high up on the post the cause of all this trouble chattered and scolded, while his master sat on the ground, looking at him as if he wondered whether or not it would ever be possible to reform such a monkey.
[to be continued.]
[A TIGRESS HUNT.]
On a dark evening in December the little village of Sundapoor, Northern India, presented a picturesque appearance. Each bamboo hut whose inmate could afford it had hung out a red or yellow paper lantern; fire-works exploded gayly amongst the banyans and tamarind-trees; the whole population of the place was gathered around three large bonfires at the east end of the single street. This demonstration was all in honor of the arrival an hour before, of Sir Dyce Hanchett—of whom so many boys and girls have read—the famous young English sportsman from Madras. Sir Dyce Hanchett had come full twenty miles out of his route expressly to attempt ridding Sundapoor and its neighborhood of its dreaded curse for so many long months, the detested man-eater Kali.
No single tiger had ever wrought such destruction within a little district. The herds had been thinned beast by beast. In August the old Buddhist priest Padará had been seized in the moon-lit street before his door, and borne away, crying out feebly, into the jungle before help was at hand; two women, one at the well in the afternoon, and the other a few days later while returning from her milking at twilight, were no more heard of until their bones were found whitening in a dry ravine. But the dry ravine was not the home of Kali—for so they called her, after the Hindoo goddess of murder—nor could they find it. The timid villagers' hunting parties had been to no purpose. Their second one indeed was overtaken by night, and before Sundapoor was reached a roar was heard in the midst of the group; a terrible creature leaped across their smouldering camp fire, and disappeared with one of their number. In the morning, a mile away, the half-devoured body of the man was found and buried. Kali had not carried it to her lair. No wonder that the unhappy people of Sundapoor began to believe that the tigress was some evil spirit in quadruped form that no eye should trace nor bullet kill.