killing an inoffensive man. Why, I might have shot you! Think how
sorry I'd have been!"

The Risaldar did not quite know what to say; so, wiser than most, he
said nothing.

"Oh, and one other matter. I don't speak much of the language yet, so,
would you mind translating to my servant that the next time he goes
sick without giving me notice, and without putting oil in my lamp, I'll
have him fed to the tiger before he's brought into my room? Just tell
him that quietly, will you? Say it slowly so that it sinks in.
Thanks."

Straight-faced as Cunningham himself, the Risaldar tongue-lashed the
servant with harsh, tooth-rasping words that brought him up to
attention. Whether he interpreted or not the exact meaning of what
Cunningham had said, he at least produced the desired effect; the
servant mumbled apologetic nothings and slunk off the veranda backward
--to go away and hold his sides with laughter at the back of the
dak-bungalow. There Mahommed Gunga found him afterward and
administered a thrashing--not, as he was careful to explain, for
disobedience, but for having dared to be amused at the Risaldar's
discomfiture.

But there was still one point that weighed heavily on Mahommed Gunga's
mind as the servant shuffled off and left him alone face to face with
Cunningham. There is as a very general rule not more than one
man-eating tiger in a neighborhood, and not even the greenest specimen
of subaltern new brought from home would be likely to mistake one for
the other kind. The man-eater was dead, and there was an engagement to