170 



THE TRIBES ON MY FRONTIER. 



have followed them, and tumbled like a storm of hail into 

 the water all but the last. It checked itself, and with a 

 most graceful curve glided up to the top of a small tree 

 and sat there, and lo ! it was a hawk, the peregrine falcon, 

 the most bloodthirsty of all the wild duck's foes. It can 

 do nothing now, unless I with my gun force them to leave 

 the water again, and, humanity apart, I have too much 

 respect for my own feelings to do that. 



Now, lest sporting Bombayites choke the columns of the 

 Times of India with inquiries regarding the whereabouts of 

 Dustypore, its proximity to the line of railway, and the 

 best way of getting to the tank, I think it proper to say 

 that Dustypore is almost everywhere, and the particular 

 tank I have described is nowhere. It is purely a figment 

 of my brain, constructed of materials drawn from a multi- 

 tude of actual or possible tanks. The materials are genuine 

 I did not make them ; but they are the cream skimmed 

 from much whey of unsuccessful toil and curds of disap- 

 pointment. If anybody thinks to inherit them by the 

 simple process of taking a ticket at the Byculla station, 

 why, he is mistaken. I could describe the sort of tank he 

 will get to, and his possible experience there, but nobody 

 would read the account. 



