pockets of my shooting-jacket. I listened for
the beaters, but could hear no voice or sound.
They had either gone so far off that they were
out of hearing, or, what was more likely, they
had been alarmed by the tiger, and had fled.
For they're poor creatures, the niggers, in any
real danger.

"I now, therefore, gave myself up as lost;
the tiger was still gnawing my cork knee, and
had one paw lying as heavy as lead on my other
leg, when suddenly, if you'll believe me, sir, the
beast yawned twice, nodded his head, and fell fast
asleep. I saw it all in a moment. He had
swallowed in my No. Ten pocket, a large bottle of
morphine—the bi-meconate of morphine, an
American preparation of great strength—that I
always carried with me when I went tiger-
hunting, in case of an attack of neuralgia, to
which I was subject before I had two-thirds of
my teeth carried away by a matchlock bullet at
Bundelcore. Now was my opportunity. There
lay the great striped beast fast asleep. I stole
my hand gently towards my rifle. I grasped it.
I cocked it. I looked at the clean brass
cap, held the muzzle close to the brute's ear,
and fired. With a yell—a groan—the beast fell.
I leaped up at the same moment to avoid his
fatal claws, and gave him the second barrel
behind the right paw close to the heart. He
groaned, stretched out his paws, tore the earth
in long scratches you might lay your hands in,
and fell dead. I took out my repeater. It was
exactly three minutes past two P.M. I had
started from the bungalow at Kollywallah, at
seven A.M. Then a giddiness came over me, and
I fainted again.

"I was awoke by something soft touching
my face. I looked up. Kind Heaven! it was
Ramchunder, with that beast of a khansamah
dead drunk in the howdah, with one of my
silver-topped champagne bottles in his hand.
I instantly called out, 'Pukrao!' which is
Hindostanee for 'take hold,' and, if you'll
believe me, sir, the sagacious animal whom
I had trained to do this, lifted me with his
proboscis into the howdah; for how could
move, you know, with my cork leg all eaten
away?

"The first thing I did was—what do you
think?"

I could not guess.

"The first thing I did, sir, was to punch that
beast of a khansamah's head, to be sure, and
then to go in search of Dostee Pooloo and those
cowardly nigger beaters.

"If you'll believe me, sir, we found them in
the nearest village, two miles off, cooking rice at
a fire, and telling the people how the sahib had
been killed by the man-eater. So what did I do
but ride in among them on Ramchunder, and
give the fellows such a welting with the whip
of my buggy, which I always carried for that
purpose, that they fell on their knees and cried
for mercy.

"'Juhlde jao, Dostee Pooloo,' I cried, 'and
bring home the tiger on a stretcher of clampa-
boughs. You'll find him in such a place.'

"And so they did, and three hours after, just
at sunset, we entered Kollywallah in procession,
firing guns, letting off rockets, the niggers
shouting songs about the sahib and the tiger.
Twentyman was delighted to see me, for he had
given me up for lost, as one of the beaters had
run to the bungalow and told him I was
killed."

The next morning, when I called at the
major's lodgings, I found, to my astonishment,
he had left by the six A.M. train, desiring the
landlady to send in his bill to his brother at No.
Twenty-six. His brother! But I felt bound in
honour to pay it.

On closely considering the story of Major
Monsoon's remarkable escape from the tiger, I
found several alarming discrepancies that led to
doubts in my mind as to its entire veracity.
Breech-loaders were not, I think, invented
twenty years ago, and, now I think of it, I
regret I did not pinch his leg hard—to make
sure that it really was cork.

P.S. The other day, too, at the Oriental Club,
I was telling the story to Colonel Curry, when
he made the following remark:

"My dear Foozle, the fellow was humbugging
you, take my word for it. Monsoon is a
traditional name in India, and is often tagged on to
native stories. There was a Colonel Monsoon,
I believe, about Lake's time, on whom the
Hindoos wrote this distich, that I've often
heard the fellows repeat:

    Ghora par howdah, pathi par jeen,
    Mutlak bazayah, Colonel Monseen;

which means, in English,

    Saddles on elephants, howdahs on horses,
    Monsoon ran away with the whole of his forces.

And, depend on it, that's what the dog borrowed
his name from. Here, waiter, another bottle of
sherry."

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELLER,
A New Series of Occasional Papers
By CHARLES DICKENS,
WILL BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK.

On the 1st of September will be published, bound in cloth,
price 5s. 6d.,
THE NINTH VOLUME.