From Dalhousie into Chamba 87 



the crunching began once more. It went on steadily ; 

 and again, praying fervently for luck, S. fired both 

 barrels into the darkness. Like the last time there 

 was a rustle, and then all was quiet. 



Feeling doomed to disappointment, S. lay down and 

 was soon asleep. About four o'clock in the morning he 

 woke surely they were not sounds of eating going on 

 j//7/? They were. It was black as ink all round even 

 then. Oh for light ! The maddening part of it was 

 that there were no more cartridges of the slugs left, 

 and to have fired a bullet in the dark would have been 

 absurd. Who would have thought that slugs would 

 have been wanted ? There was nothing for it but 

 to sit on tenterhooks, adjuring the dawn to break and 

 the panther to remain. However, the aggravating 

 cat was too cunning. He ate for at least an hour, 

 steadily, making an immense noise, crunching and 

 munching, going every now and then to the pool 

 in the nullah and drinking, then bringing a bone, 

 evidently, and coming and sitting right under the very 

 tree, purring loudly, with S., scarcely daring to breathe, 

 over his head. It was tantalising to a last degree, 

 and all that prevented S. from firing a chance bullet 

 with his rifle was the hope of being able to see 

 something if he waited. 



At last the blackness appeared less dense, and 

 straining his eyes through it, S. thought he could 

 just make out a dim shadow, even then, crossing 

 the nullah. His rifle was up in an instant for the 

 moment when it should reappear among the trees ; 



