44 
of food almost at a moment’s notice. Often he 
will proudly produce a tasty dish which he will 
call mutton cutlets, which means that a village 
goat has met an untimely end, the sahib’s rupees 
for the meal being more than sufficient to pay 
for the whole goat, and providing a banquet for 
several families in the servants’ quarters for a 
week. But when all else fails there is always 
the moorgi or country chicken—the ubiquitous 
moorgi. 
I remember a dak-bungalow “banquet” at which 
I once assisted. Several of us arrived hungry 
and tired and interviewed the khansama. The in¬ 
terview was something as follows: 
“We want tiffin (lunch) butler.” 
“Very good, Sar.” 
“How long will you be?” 
“Half an hour, Sar.” 
“What can you give us?” 
“To-day no mutton got-it, Sar.” 
“All right. Then what?” 
“I give chicken soup, Sar.” 
“Yes. And then?” 
“Chicken cutlets, Sar.” 
“Very well. And then?” 
“Chicken curry, Sar.” 
“Anything else?” 
“Roast chicken, Sar.” 
“All right. Cut along and hurry up.” 
In a few minutes pandemonium as the whole 
family of servants chased a couple of miserable 
long-legged chickens around the “compound,” and 
in an incredibly short space of time the banquet 
is spread before us. 
To resume. I reckon the nights which follow¬ 
ed were, for me, a foretaste of what the wicked 
have to expect. There were only three beds 
and one mosquito curtain. Sleeping on the floor 
among the big black ants, with the chance of 
falling foul of a wandering scorpion, was out of 
the question. So my portion was a table. The 
Boss, of course got the mosquito curtain. And 
those mosquitos! The bungalow being on the 
edge of the forest the “skeeters” literally swarm¬ 
ed in myriads, and what whoppers they were!— 
winged lobsters, more or less! I plastered them 
with my hand on to the whitewashed wall along¬ 
side of which my table lay, till I fell asleep with 
sheer exhaustion, though with my lust for blood 
still undiminished. And then did they drink of 
my blood to their hearts’ content, till I was 
awakened at times by a big fat rat or two patter¬ 
ing mediativeiy over my body. Rats are among 
my pet aversions, so that in one way and an¬ 
other the denizens of the dark combined to make 
my nights hideous. 
The ancient gold workings lay on an open 
plain to reach which we had to traverse about 
ten miles of jungle—some dense and some 
sparsely wooded. Each morning we set off to 
examine a fresh portion of the workings, accom¬ 
panied by a bullock cart carrying our picks and 
shovels, gear and rifles. The rifles were taken 
in cases of need though we were primarily out 
on business. 
These old workings presented a curious sight 
viewed from the edge of the jungle. Far as the 
eye could reach the plain was dotted with 
“dump,” viz. series upon series of low mounds. 
The ancients had not the tools to go deeper when 
brought up by hard rock. The softer rock, etc. 
was crushed between two stones as it was ex¬ 
FOREST AND STREAM 
cavated, and each mound represented the scene 
of activity of a number of coolies seated in a 
ring. The gold was washed out in primitive 
fashion, which, by the way, was similar to the 
methods we used in our investigations. 
The work proved rather exhausting for the 
Boss, so on the last day, when we had pro¬ 
ceeded about half way to the workings, he di¬ 
rected the others to push on while he and I fol¬ 
lowed at a more leisurely gait. This nearly 
proved our undoing, or at least mine. Our rifles 
handy, we stretched ourselves under a tree for 
a short rest, and the cart and our friends were 
soon out of sight and sound. After a while we 
started to take up the trail, but there was no 
beaten track and the marks of the cart wheels, 
after traversing a stretch of hard-baked ground, 
plunged into the jungle again at a point which 
all our searching failed to discover. We decided 
to push on in what we felt was the right direc¬ 
tion, but half an hour’s walking brought us up 
against a dense wall of jungle which was hope¬ 
lessly impenetrable. We were lost! 
We separated to shouting distance and set off 
in every direction with no better result until the 
Boss was completely fagged-out. By this time 
we were within sight of a low hill, and I set off 
to climb this vantage point, leaving my com¬ 
panion resting in a little clearing. 
It was now that my lucky star proved to be 
in the ascendant. I had breasted the hill and 
was looking around for a suitable tree to climb 
from which to scan the surrounding country, 
when my nose was assailed by the powerful acrid 
stench which denotes the abiding-place of the 
wild animal. In the eagerness of our search 
after a way out of our difficulties we had for¬ 
gotten the 'possibility of any lurking peril and 
the smell which assailed my nostrils came as 
somewhat of a rude shock. Searching hastily 
around I discovered close to me a lair scratched 
out of the ground and partly screened by over¬ 
hanging bushes which had evidently only just 
been vacated—probably owing to the shouts with 
which the Boss and I kept within touch as I 
climbed the hill. I knew there were no tigers 
in that particular district, so it must be a panther, 
thought I. Close, too, but where? And what to 
do? 
I was too closely surrounded by scrub jungle 
for my liking, so I warily made toward some 
opener ground close at hand. I had just reached 
the edge of this when I described “spots” slink¬ 
ing along the bushes about thirty yards away. A 
young female panther with a cub at her heels. 
As I emerged she stopped and turning snarling. 
It was my first experience and I was alone and 
very disconcerted. However, I dropped on my 
knee and aimed—and maybe I breathed a prayer 
for “strength and guidance” ! I don’t remember, 
but I recollect my animal moved quickly in an 
undecided sort of way, as if making up her mind 
to what to do—leave the cub and charge, or 
stand by the cub. 
Well, I let drive and hit her far back in the 
belly, paralyzing her hind-quarters so that she 
writhed around in a circle, clawing up the ground. 
The more or less success of my first shot stead¬ 
ied me, but my aim was still poor enough to 
call for two more shots before the beast lay 
still. What would have happened had the ani¬ 
mal stuck to its lair is not hard to guess, for I 
should have been taken completely unawares. 
After this I made my way in great excitement 
to take counsel with the Boss, whom I discovered 
in a very perturbed state of mind. We had re¬ 
mained a long time in decision as to the best 
course to adopt when to our intense relief some 
natives, attracted from a distance by the shots, 
came along and undertook to guide us back to 
the bungalow. So we gathered up the trophy and 
returned triumphantly to await the return of our 
friends later in the day. 
It was a proud moment when Shikarri shook me 
by the hand and congratulated me upon my first 
panther. For Shikarri was a mighty hunter. 
“THE DRY FLY ON FAST WATER.” 
Since our great-uncle Isaac passed over the 
divide, many hundreds of books on angling have 
been written. More than one hundred editions 
of Walton’s immortal work have been published. 
The demand is never failing for good books upon 
this subject, and a number of the best and most 
original ever written have appeared since the 
publication of "Moating Flies and How to Dress 
Them.” 1886 (by Mr. F. M. Halford.) 
The literature of American fly fishing is by no 
means scanty, but we have had but one book de¬ 
voted to dry fly fishing (exclusively) since that 
method became popular. The subject is an in¬ 
teresting one to all men who fish for trout; and 
very possibly, the new work I have been reading 
will interest all anglers. This is, “The Dry Fly 
on Fast Water,” by Mr. George M. L. La 
Branche. 
The subject -is treated in such a fresh and 
agreeable way; there is no dogmatizing. Mr. 
La Branche is a keen observer, and brings much 
experience to the study of problems that con¬ 
front the lover of the floating fly on our rushing 
mountain streams. We are constantly learning 
some new wrinkle, if we are much on these 
rivers, as the conditions vary from day to day. 
The water is either up or down ; never the same 
height from one day to another. Mr. La Branche 
gives an idea of the value of close observation 
when on the water, and does not approve of 
hurry. He studies the rise and feeding habits of 
the fish; where to find them, and at what time. 
I do not think he has much confidence in the 
theory of exact imitation, but he has a few 
favorite patterns of flies and considers a small 
range in size sufficient. 
His style is simple and direct; not a word 
wasted, and I have heard the work heartily 
praised by all the brethren of the craft. We all 
have our own notions, but the greater our ex¬ 
perience the less we are inclined to make hard 
and fast rules for the taking of trout. To a cer¬ 
tain extent each stream is a law unto itself. For 
instance, there is a very noticeable difference be¬ 
tween the trout of the Esopus and the Beaver- 
kill; yet their sources are not far apart. The man 
who fishes one stream is dangerous; he kills fair 
baskets when strangers to the water have little 
success; but give me the man who has rambled, 
rod in nand, casting his flies on many waters, 
for hints and wrinkles that will be of service to 
the inexperienced and of interest to older hands. 
I recognize some of the places described by Mr. 
La Branche, and know him by reputation as a 
sportsman of high ideals. For instance—he re¬ 
turns all trout except the largest, and his limit 
is very high. He fishes the floating fly ex¬ 
clusively. 
