simple child crawls to it. But Luther Warden was there to guard me
with Brother Matthias Pennel, and in my inmost heart I hated them both
for it. Then Perry Thomas blundered in, and compared to him, old
Luther and his learned brother were endurable. As to Robert Weston, I
knew that beside him Matthias Pennel was my dearest friend. Then Tim
came! and as I looked at the long settee where Luther was droning on
and on through the story of Sister Flora, where Perry Thomas seemed to
sit beneath the judgment seat, where Weston shifted wearily to and fro,
where Tim was suffering the tortures of the thumb-screw, I cried to my
inmost self, "Verily, Brother Matthias, thou art a mighty joker!"

It took a long time to kill that tiger. There was so much recalling to
be done, so much remembering needed, and reviewing of statistics
concerning the flora and the fauna of the far East, that when at last
the rifle's cry rang out on the still night air, which, as we had
learned, in India carries sound to a much greater distance than in our
cold, Northern climes; when the mighty Bengal reeled and fell dying,
and Sister Flora sprang from her hiding place on the roof to sing a
hymn of praise; when all this had been told, Luther Warden banged the
book shut, arose, and looked at the clock.

[Illustration: The tiger story.]

"Mighty souls!" he cried. "It's long past bed-time. It's half-past
nine."

Back over the white road we went, Weston and Perry, Tim and I.

"Good-night, boys!" called the strange man cheerily from the gloom of
the tavern porch.