The beaters brought up a wonderful tale of how another bear, badly wounded in the leg, had charged through their lines and gone back.  They stuck to their story, and either a second bear actually existed or they are colossal liars.  I incline to the latter theory.

We had wasted all our luck.  No more bears came to look at us, and so, late in the afternoon, we sought the rest-house and consolation from Jane and Hesketh, who had arrived from Drogmulla.

I had occasion to deplore the bad manners of the rats at Harwan, but their conduct was exemplary compared with that of the rats of Rainawari!  I had been writing my journal, according to my custom, before going to sleep, and hardly had “lights out” been sounded than a rat went off with my candle, literally from below my very nose.  Then, from the inadequately partitioned chamber where the invalid vainly sought repose, came sounds of strife—­boots and curses flying—­followed by an extraordinary scraping and scuffling.  A large rat, having fallen into the big tin bath, was making bids for freedom by ineffectually leaping up the slippery sides.  At last he contrived to get out, and peace reigned until we managed to get to sleep.

Wednesday was spent honking in the forlorn hope of a bear, I have now spent more than fourteen days in pursuit of black bear, and I have only seen one.  Every one said to me in spring, “Oh, go to the Lolab, it’s full of bear,” I went, and was informed that it was a late season and I was too early—­the bears were not yet awake.  I was consoled by learning that later on, when the mulberries were ripe, the berry-loving beasts jostled one another in the pursuit of the delicacy so much, that they were no sport I went down from Gulmarg for three days, honking among the mulberries, but saw none.  Then I was told the maize season was undoubtedly the best.  Now the maize is full ripe; the maize fields are tempting in their golden glory, and the only thing wanting to complete the picture is a big, black bear.

Either my luck has been particularly bad (and I think it has, as the Colonel got a fine bear below Gulmarg, and had another chance at Rainawari), or else there are not so many bears in real life as exist in the imaginations of those who know.  My own theory is, that, unless he has remarkable luck, a stranger, in the hands of an ignorant shikari, and knowing nothing of the language, has but a remote chance of sport.  If the shikari does not happen to know the district thoroughly, he is necessarily in the hands of the villagers, and has to trust to them to arrange the beats and place the guns.  The villagers want their four annas for a day’s shouting, but do not know or care if a bear is in the neighbourhood, so, having planted the gun (and shikari with him), they proceed to beat after their own fashion, in other words to stroll, in Indian file, like geese across a common, along the line of least resistance, instead of spreading out and searching all the thickest jungle.