The chowkidar sat on his mat huddled up in his blanket, droning one
of the time-honoured bhajans (hymns) of India.

Presently he disappeared and, next, piercing yells rent the mist-laden
atmosphere. The four Sahebs were in the verandah in a trice, and soon
discovered the chowkidar returning to the verandah, visibly shaken
and without his blanket.

"What is the matter, and who shouted?" asked the Manager.

"Saheb," the chowkidar replied in a quavering voice "a tiger sprang
on me and caught the knot of my blanket."

"Here!" interrupted the four Englishmen incredulously.

"Yes, Huzoor (Your Honour), as I sat here against this post the tiger
came, seized the knot of my blanket and began to pull. Like lightning
I made my plan. I grasped with a strong tight hold the sides of the
blanket and holding myself together like a ball I let Lord Tiger
pull. He dragged me to the edge of the tila (hill). There I suddenly
let go the blanket and shouted with all my might. The tiger fell over,
down the hill, and is gone."

Sure enough, there were the foot-marks of the tiger, the mark of
the drag, and the signs of where "Stripes" had slipped over and down
the terrace.

The tiger had been harrying the coolies for some time and a rumour
had got about that he was a man-eater. It was pretty certain that he
would come again the next night; so the planters determined to sit