Leaves from an Indian Jungle. 



An old man sleepily drives the bullocks, crooning a 

 monotonous air the while, and urging them with occasi- 

 onal eldritch yells. 



I suppose most of us are aware of the existence of a 

 certain demon of mischief that haunts our daily life. 

 I mean the small household gnome who is directly respon- 

 sible for many of our petty worries who hides the 

 penknife, or cigar-case, or book which we have for a 

 moment put down, and is very fond of match-boxes. 

 I made a distinct score off him at this camp. 



I was shooting entirely with a '303 magazine sporting 

 rifle at the time, my new '400 bore cordite rifle having 

 failed to arrive from England to date ; and I had sold my 

 577 and another blunderbuss type of obsolete artillery to 

 buy that same -400. I was, therefore, temporarily depend- 

 ent entirely on my one barrel. 



The " pull-off " of the little rifle had become a trifle 

 heavier than I like, so, urged doubtless by my particular 

 familiar fiend, I stripped the action. Having re-adjusted 

 some matters, I was engaged in replacing the sear spring, 

 which actuates both the trigger and the catch holding the 

 magazine. At this moment my companion was startled 

 from slumber by a loud expletive. The spring had snapped ! 

 ***** 



I can see the little camp under the big tamarinds now, 

 myself sitting gazing out on the heat-shimmering jungle, 

 with that tiny broken bit of steel in my palm. Wild 

 plans chased each other through my head, each to be dis- 

 carded in turn. Here I was in the heart of India, weeks 

 away from new springs, and not overmuch leave to get 

 through. For the want of that little bit of steel, my tigers 

 would roam all round camp at their ease. I pictured my 

 companion's return, laden-; with . trophies, while I sat in 



