Sporting Trips of a Subaltern 



leaves a' light foot coming down, barely audibly, 

 a pause, then the gradual scrunch of a great 

 weight placed on it ; a pause again, then the same 

 repeated. My shikara, behind me in the tree, 

 whispers "Bagh" (tiger). Steadily on and on 

 it comes, straight towards us from behind, till it 

 pauses directly under my branch. The moon 

 light is full on the kill, my rifle at my shoulder, 

 and I hardly dare breath, expecting momentarily 

 to see the beast step out. For over an hour I wait 

 like this, but nothing comes; at last, desperate with 

 mosquito bites and stiffness, I shift a bit and try 

 to look under me ; all is black there, and though 

 I have made a slight noise in moving, not a sound 

 comes from below. Silently as he came, some- 

 thing had roused the tiger's suspicions and far 

 more silently has he gone. Another hour I 

 waited, making five hours and a half since I 

 began my watch ; then, sore, stiff, and covered with 

 mosquito bites, I could stand it no more, and gave 

 two whistles, the signal agreed on for " Let's go 

 home to bed." Back came the same signal from 

 the other machan, and, with a sigh of relief, I 

 dropped down from my bough, hoping as I did 

 so that " stripes " really had gone. 



This was a very uninteresting ending. Far more 

 exciting was the experience of a brother officer of 

 mine in the same Siwaliks not long after. His tiger 

 arrived all right, but simultaneously with a rogue 



