Pelts 



hour of excruciating agony before risking the shot 

 at his head which gave me my first tiger. 



The cattle-lifter is undoubtedly a most serious 

 pest to the villager in the area of country he 

 affects, and at times proves a perfect curse. 

 I remember one puja holiday I was visiting a 

 district officer in Hill Tippurah. The day after my 

 arrival word was brought in that a tiger had killed 

 five cows out of a herd on the evening before. 

 In spite of the assurances of the informer, we 

 felt firmly convinced that there must be more 

 than one animal to have killed so many, probably 

 a tigress teaching her cubs how to kill. A party 

 of five of us rode out to the place, some ten miles 

 distant. Sure enough, the village shikari con- 

 firmed the report, and said that only one tiger 

 was present, and he a well-known depredator 

 and an old hand at the game. He went lame on 

 one foot, and this enabled his pugs to be easily 

 distinguished. There would be a fine moon half 

 an hour after sunset, and it was agreed that we 

 should sit up till ten, and then ride home. Five 

 machans had been built, but one was said to be of 

 no use, and was occupied by a native. I sat in 

 the same machan as my friend. We tossed for 

 first shot, and I lost. There would not be much for 

 me to do, I surmised. The rains had come to an 

 end, and the sun set in a wild blaze of red glory 

 over the edge of the forest-clad hill to our left, 

 and with its departure arose the most appalling 



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