No. 2 
Forest 
Vol. LXXXIII. 
and Stream 
July 11, 1914 
Panther Hunting In India 
A Journey on The Plains of India and My First Panther 
By J. Isman-Emery. 
Clankety-clank, clankety-clank, clankety-clank. 
Interminable stretches of parched grass,with¬ 
ered shrubs, wilted trees and dry, thirsty-look- 
ing water-courses. Overhead, the cloudless blue 
vault of heaven from out which the pitiless rays 
of the sun beat down upon our -train as it jolts 
its weary way over the uneven track. 
Only here and there a village or a homestead, 
surrounded by a welcome green patch of rice- 
land, laboriously watered from wells by the body- 
driven piccotah, and nestling beneath the shade 
of a few bright-green neem trees or a clump of 
tamarinds. Here and -there a majestic sacred 
banyan tree and, at the primitive railroad-stations, 
a tenderly-raised “garden” containing a few 
banana trees and the inevitable scarlet-blossom¬ 
ed hybiscus. 
Clankety-clank, clankety-clank, clankety-clank. 
Last night, at the junction, we exchanged the 
main line for its metre-guage, two-trains-a-day 
tributary, and, in the early morning, as we pull¬ 
ed out of the typical Indian railroad-station, our 
clanking, antedeluvian apology-for-an-engine was 
already tired. Now that -we near our destina¬ 
tion the overladen engine appears to be making 
desperate efforts, for we can hear its hot breath 
coming in stertorous gasps as it breasts the rise. 
Clankety-clank, clankety-clank, clankety-clank. 
No air, no green, no shade. All brown and 
hot and tired. And still the telegraph poles go 
slowly by—slowly and more slowly it seems—• 
tired-looking telegraph poles with a droop! 
We were four. First of all there was the 
Boss- A typical Anglo-Indian of the old school 
—tanned, bald of pate and grey of beard, “peg”- 
drinking and irascible. All excusable by reason 
of his forty-odd years’ of residence in the 
country during the accumulation of a respectable 
fortune, considerable embonpoint and a chronic 
propensity for “prickly-heat.” A merchant 
prince of the kind that helped make India’s pros¬ 
perity, albeit of a type now almost vanished. 
Next there was the Captain. Not Capt. the 
Hon. John Tomnoddy of the “Blues,” but plain 
Captain Blank, a mining captain from Cornwall. 
Expert in his line, stubborn as a mule, hard- 
drinking, hard-swearing and morose. An unin¬ 
teresting man and one to be put up with merely. 
Rumor had it that he was once a familiar ex¬ 
ponent of the gospel at street-corners in mining 
camps, but of late his “fist” had doubtless been 
more familiar with the feel of a “peg” of whisky 
than of the Book. 
Then there was the Shikarri, so known because 
of his fame as a hunter and his familiarity with 
the jungle and all that therein is. Poor Shikarri 
—big, genial, Shikarri. Brown, brawny and un¬ 
tiring, though beginning to feel that he was not 
as j'oung as used to be, as he said, and that the 
time was not far distant when he would do well 
to lay aside the rifle and bid adieu to his beloved 
forests. But Fate ruled otherwise and he died 
in harness. This is how it happened. 
A few years afterward Shikarri one day re¬ 
marked to a friend that he was getting old and 
his nerve not what it was. Within a few days 
villagers brought news of a marauding panther 
which had carried off a child, and away went 
Shikarri with the same friend for a last shot. He 
never got it. Arrived at a point where two 
ravines branched away, -the two friends tossed a 
coin for position, each setting off with his bear¬ 
er along one of the ravines- Shikarri had 
scarcely started on his way when the panther 
burst out upon him from a nearby thicket, tak¬ 
ing him unawares and mauling him cruelly. They 
carried him many miles to the nearest hospital 
where he died of the inevitable blood-poisoning. 
There was mourning for the sahib throughout 
the villages of the simple people who loved him 
for many miles around. Poor old Shikarri. How 
I used to drink in his tales of elephant and tiger, 
panther and bison. For he was a mighty hunter. 
Lastly there was your humble servant—the 
New Chum. It was in the early days of my 
life in India, when I had much to learn and was 
eager for experience, though I had already made 
good use of my time. That ray father was a 
friend of the Boss’ accounted for my invitation 
to join the party, which, however, was doubtless 
also due to the fact that the Boss was anxious 
for another to “make a four” at Whist. But 
this idea did not pan out well, for the Captain 
was always drunk and fast asleep in the even¬ 
ings ! 
So there we were on that midsummer day, 
jolting along in the sweltering heat of the plains 
of India, what time we were not stopped at a 
wayside station—and we stopped at them all. 
Then the heat was worse, the flies became in¬ 
tolerable, and pandemonium, with the natives 
like devils incarnate shouting, gesticulating and 
quarreling on the platform, reigned supreme. At 
these times we would usually refresh ourselves— 
viz.: wash the collected dust in our windpipes 
further down!—with long draughts of weak 
whisky and soda, while our servants drenched 
with water th ekhus-khus covering the windows 
of our “saloon”—save the word! 
And our destination? Well, the Boss had a no¬ 
tion to prospect one of the gold workings in 
Southern India which have been attributed to 
those industrious people of old who were des¬ 
patched by King Solomon and returned laden 
with “gold, silver, ivory apes, and peacocks.” Tne 
Boss further, had a shrewd notion that modern 
methods would enable the workings to be opened 
up again profitably. Well, there are flourishing 
mines to-day on the scene of our prospecting. 
The Captain was adviser-in-chief, the Shikarri 
was interested, and I went along for the ex¬ 
perience. So there we were, four very dissimilar 
companions, with perhaps a common interest be¬ 
tween only the Shikarri and myself in our mutual 
keenness for sport. 
The afternoon saw us at the more than wel¬ 
come end of our train-journey, and we tumbled 
out on to the dusty platform bag and baggage. 
Twenty-five miles more to go in a bullock bundi, 
the two-wheeled springless native vehicle drawn 
by a paid of oxen which one sees all over India, 
and Which has served from time immemorial as 
the principal means of transport. 
Leaving the baggage to follow with the ser¬ 
vants we boarded the cart, two in front and two 
at the back, vis-a-vis, and were off on our five- 
mile-an-hour, jolting, soul torturing way over the 
rutty, rock-strewn road. 
Every five miles the pair of bulls was changed 
for others which had been posted, and we pro¬ 
gressed without much incident, except once when 
a yoke-string broke and we two in the rear were 
precipitated on top of our fellows on the front 
seat, to the accompaniment of much bad language, 
our jehu being deposited in the road. Each time 
an unsprung wheel hit a “rock” we would be 
shot into the air and return to rest with an im¬ 
pact which though disagreeable was, doubtless, 
good for our livers! 
Late that night, four dishevelled, bad-tempered 
and thirsty mortals descended from the bundi at 
the dak-bungalow or rest-house which was to be 
our place of abode during our prospecting opera¬ 
tions. 
These dak-bungalows are scattered every few 
miles along the roads in India for the conveni¬ 
ence of travellers. 
They are all much alike—just a central living- 
room opening into a bedroom on either side, the 
whole surrounded by a low verandah. A small 
group of outbuildings contain kitchen, servants’ 
quarters and stables, and the whole outfit is in 
charge of one smiling Hindu who is cook, butler 
bearer and “everything rolled into one”—with 
help from his invariably large family. 
It is astonishing wdiat the khansama or butler 
will do for the unexpected traveller in the way 
43 
