"My dogcart went wrong," Swinton answered, "so I stayed with the major."
"What made me think something might have happened was that the bally forest here is pretty well impregnated with leopards and things—one of Ananda's hunting chitas escaped last evening and he was worrying about it at dinner; says he's a treacherous brute, has turned sour on his work, and is as liable to spring on a man as on a pronghorn."
"Was the prince anxious about me in particular?" the captain asked innocently.
"Oh, no; he didn't say anything, at least."
Finnerty sprang to his feet as a big gong boomed a tattoo over at the keddah. "Trouble!" he ejaculated. "Elephant on the rampage—likely Moti."
The bungalow buzzed like a hive of disturbed bees. A bearer came with Finnerty's helmet and a leather belt in which hung a .45 Webley revolver; a saddled horse swung around the bungalow, led by a running syce.
The major turned to Swinton. "Like to go?"
"Rather!"
Finnerty sprang down the steps, caught the bridle rein, and said: "Bring Akbar for the sahib, quick!"
Soon a bay Arab was brought by his own syce. "Come on, Gilfain, and see the sport!" And Finnerty swung to the saddle. "It's not far, but the rule when the alarm gong sounds is that my horse is brought; one never knows how far he may go before he comes back." To the bearer he added: "Bring my 8-bore and plenty of ball cartridges to the keddah."