0 
was the tiger. The Badaga’s face was a per- 
fect study ; his eyes were starting out of their 
sockets, his body was rigid, and there was no 
longer any necessity to stop his mouth—fear 
had struck him dumb. The tiger now began 
to sniff through an interstice between the 
stones overhead; he smelt the Badaga. I felt 
a bit ‘“‘skeery” myself, and did not quite know 
what to do. At first I contemplated stepping 
out into the open and confronting the tiger; 
but a shot by moonlight is always risky, and a 
miss would have brought the tiger off to me in 
atwinkling. I tried hard to make his head out 
through the crevice, but could not succeed ; so 
gently inserting the muzzle in the cranny 
where I heard the brute sniffing, I pulled the 
trigger. In that confined space the report was 
tremendous, and ditto the smoke; but, if my 
shot had no other effect, it restored his voice to 
the Badaga, who began to yell loud enough to 
frighten the d—1 himself. Perfect silence suc- 
ceeded, and, as nothing could be done till 
morning, I lay down to snatch a few hours’ 
sleep, knowing that I could trust the Badaga to 
maintain a vigilant watch. AtdawnI climbed 
up and examined the roof, but the only visible 
effect of my shct was a bit of stone chipped off 
the edge of one of the slabs. Whether the 
tiger was hit or not I do not know; I believe, 
myself, I must have fired just in front of his 
nose. - My Badaga friend has never forgotten 
that night’s adventure, and the mere mention 
of it, even after the lapse of time, makes his 
hair stand on end. 
I could give several other instances to show 
that, when I am on the warpath on the Blue 
Hills, Dame Fortune makes the tigers her es- 
pecial care; but my pen has had free play 
enough for once. However, we all know that 
fickleness is her chief attribute, and when next 
I pay a visit to the hills, as I think of doing in 
a month, perhaps she .may greet me with a 
smile. For the present I live in hope. 
Before ending this epistle I may note that 
local shikaris recognize two kinds of tigers as 
inhabiting the Nilgiris. They are not different 
species, and their structure is, of course, the 
same, but the difference in their food supply, 
and their methods of obtaining it, make a 
marked distinction in their habits and appear- 
NATURE'S REALM, 
ance. First, there is the cattle lifter, who re~ 
stricts his excursions to the neighborhood ot 
villages and takes life easily, levying a constant 
tribute on the village herds. He is always a 
large, heavy, handsome tiger. The game 
killer, pure and simple, on the other hand, is 
small compared with his cousin with the pre- 
dilection tor beef, and he dwells far from the 
madding crowd in the distant forests which 
form the chief haunts of deer and other game. 
Tempt him as you may, he will not look at a 
cow or buffalo, but whether from distaste or 
fear I cannot say. I should muchlike to know 
whether a similar “distinction without a differ- 
ence” exists in the hill tracts in N. India, 
where tigers most do congregate. 
Another correspondent writes : 
“Some years ago, whilst shooting in India, 
a friend and myself were beating for a tiger 
along the banks of a river, then nearly dry. 
We had, as usual, tied out several young buf- 
falo calves to tempt his striped majesty, and ot 
these he had taken due toll, without, however, 
repaying us by affording a shot. He was a 
very leary customer, and up to every dodge ot 
a hunted tiger. For three days we beat for 
him without any tangible result, though each 
day we put him up more than once. At one 
time he would slip off before we got to our 
posts ; another he would lie close, and, jump- 
ing up, charge back through the beaters with 
a roar, and when he did break from the bank 
of the river he took very good care to cross at 
a spot that was practically out of range of us 
both. This game had gone on for three days, 
and on the third, toward evening, I witnessed 
what I am about to relate. After the previous 
night’s “kill” all the Zaz/as, or buffalo calves, 
had been taken in except one. This one was 
in a cool, shady spot in the bed of the river 
near a little pool of water, and not a hundred 
and fifty yards from where we had left our 
horses, as we intended riding back to camp 
after the beat. Our friend had pursued his 
usual aggravating tactics, and at last broke 
back, and, passing me where I could not fire, 
got behind my post. I knew he had gone 
back, as I just caught a glimpse of him, but too 
transient to risk a shot. Something prompted 
me to look back over my shoulder (I was 
