shoot one that very morning. He hesitated--said nothing for the
moment--and wondered whether his best course would be to go ahead and
pretend to beat out the jungle and tell some lie or other about the
tiger having got away. But Ralph Cunningham, with serious gray eyes
fixed full on his, saved him the trouble of deciding.

"If it's all one to you, Mahommed Gunga," he said, the corner of his
mouth just flickering, "we'll move on from here at once. This is a
beastly old bungalow to sleep in, and shooting tigers don't seem so
terribly exciting to me. Besides, the climate here must be rotten for
the horses."

"As you wish, sahib."

"Very well--if the choice rests with me, I wish it. It might--ah
--save the villagers a lot of hard work beating through the jungle,
mightn't it--besides, there'll be other tigers on the road."

"Innumerable tigers, sahib."

"Good. Will you order a start then?"

The Risaldar departed round the corner of the bungalow, and a minute or
two later Cunningham's ears caught the sound of a riding-switch,
lustily applied, and of muffled groans. He suspected readily enough
what was going on, particularly since his servant was not in evidence,
but he dared not laugh on the veranda. He went inside, and made
believe to be busy with his bag before he relaxed the muscles of his
face.