too, in that instant--as a born soldier does remember things--that
in the dark an attacking enemy is probably more frightened than his
foe. His father had told it him when he was a little lad afraid of
bogies; he in turn had told it to the other boys at school, and they
had passed it on until in that school it had become rule number one of
school-boy lore--just as rule number two in all schools where the
sons of soldiers go is "Take the fight to him."

He leaped from the bed, with his rifle out in front of him--
white-nightshirted and unexpected--sudden enough to scare the wits
out of anything that had them. He was met by a snarl. The two eyes
narrowed, and then blazed. They lowered, as though their owner
gathered up his weight to spring. He fired between them. The flash
and the smoke blinded him; the burst of the discharge within four
echoing walls deadened his cars, and he was aware of nothing but a
voice beside him that said quietly: "Well done, bahadur! Thou art thy
father's son!"

He dropped his rifle butt to the floor, and some one struck a light.
Even then it was thirty seconds before his strained eyes grew
accustomed to the flare and he could see the tiger at his feet, less
than a yard away--dead, bleeding, wide-eyed, obviously taken by
surprise and shot as he prepared to spring. Beside him, within a yard,
Mahommed Gunga stood, with a drawn sabre in his right hand and a pistol
in his left, and there were three other men standing like statues by
the walls.

"How long have you been here?" demanded Cunningham.

"A half-hour, sahib."