His plan was to get out at once into the country, take ambush for the
night, shoot the first lion that came along, and then back to the hotel
for breakfast. So off he went, carrying not only his usual arsenal, but
the marvellous patent tent strapped to his back. He attracted no little
attention as he trudged along, and catching sight of a very fine camel,
his heart beat fast, for he thought the lions could not be far off now.

It was quite dark by the time he had got only a little way beyond the
outskirts of the town, scrambling over ditches and bramble-hedges. After
much hard work of this kind, the mighty hunter suddenly stopped,
whispering to himself, "I seem to smell a lion hereabouts." He sniffed
keenly in all directions. To his excited imagination, it seemed a likely
place for a lion; so, dropping on one knee, and laying one of his guns
in front of him, he waited.

He waited very patiently. One hour, two hours; but nothing stirred. Then
he suddenly remembered that great lion-hunters take a little young goat
with them to attract the lion by its bleating. Having forgotten to
supply himself with one, Tartarin conceived the happy idea of bleating
like a kid. He started softly, calling, "Meh, meh!" He was really afraid
that a lion might hear him, but as no lion seemed to be paying
attention, he became bolder in his "mehs," until the noise he made was
more like the bellowing of a bull.

But hush! What was that? A huge black object had for the moment loomed
up against the dark blue sky. It stooped, sniffing the ground; then
seemed to move away again, only to return suddenly. It must be the lion
at last; so, taking a steady aim, bang went the gun of Tartarin, and a
terrible howling came in response. Clearly his shot had told; the