LUCK AT LAST WITH TIGER 109 



cave was on the slope of a hill, so by standing a 

 little downhill I could get on a level with the 

 cave entrance. Fortunately Bruin had evidently 

 gorged himself on honey, and felt very disinclined 

 to budge out of his cool quarters into the glare 

 of a hot March day, but he objected to being 

 nudged in the ribs by my stick, and shifted 

 sufficiently from his place to give me the oppor- 

 tunity of a shot, which I took most promptly. 

 It was followed by truly bearish roars, and I can 

 assure you a wounded bear can make a most 

 horrible row. Still he would not face the open, 

 and to crawl in and face a wounded bear, with no 

 elbow-room to spare, was a bit too warm for my 

 liking. I decided, therefore, to see if smoking 

 him out of his lair would not have the desired 

 effect. Even that did not succeed, so I then 

 had a torch tied to the end of a pole and pushed 

 in towards the sluggard. The result was in- 

 stantaneous. Out he came, and bang went my 

 gun, and he rolled over stone dead, right into the 

 fire, but we soon rolled him out of that to save 

 his coat. 



The bagging of that bear must have taken me 

 the best part of six hours, with excitement the 

 whole time, so that I was jolly tired when it was 

 over. A bear is a nasty thing to tackle, and 

 particularly so when one is single-handed. 



This was a year of odd happenings, just 

 showing how one never knows what one may meet 

 when after the most ordinary game. 



About a couple of miles below my bungalow 

 there was an old abandoned coffee nursery. The 

 undergrowth at the time had not got very thick. 



