"By Jove!" said the leader in some astonishment as our search
proceeded unsuccessfully, "has _anybody_ hit him? Maybe he died of
fright."

At this moment Bhima Gandharva calmly advanced, lifted up the great
fore leg of the tiger and showed us a small blue hole just underneath
it: at the same time he felt along the tiger's skin on the opposite
side to the hole, rolled the bullet about under the cuticle where
it had lodged after passing through the animal, and deftly making an
incision with his knife drew it forth betwixt his thumb and finger. He
handed it to the gentleman whose guests we were, and to whom the
rifle belonged which had been placed in our howdah, and then modestly
withdrew from the circle.

"There isn't another rifle in camp that carries so small a bullet,"
said our host, holding up the ball, "and there can't be the least
doubt that the Hindu is the man who killed him."

Not another bullet-hole was to be found.

"When _did_ you do it?" I asked of Bhima. "I knew not that you had
fired at all."

"When he made his first leap from the thicket," he said quietly. "I
feared he was going to land directly on you. The shot turned him."

At this the three discomfited claimants of the tiger-skin (which
belongs to him who kills) with the heartiest English good-nature burst
into roars of laughter, each at himself as well as the others, and
warmly shook Bhima's hand amid a general outbreak of applause from the