“Indeed, yes.  I do not understand it at all,” I replied.  At the collector’s call a couple of beaters came forward and stooped down to examine the trail.  One of them, a good-looking young gowala, or cowherd, followed along the footprints, examining each to be sure he was not going on a false spoor; he moved slowly, scrutinising each hole, as the traces grew shallower on the rising ground, approaching a bit of small jungle.  My sight followed the probable course of the track ahead of him and something caught my eyes, which are remarkably good, even at a great distance.  The object was brown and hairy; a dark brown, not the kind of colour one expects to see in the jungle in September.  I looked closely, and was satisfied that it must be part of an animal; still more clearly I saw it, and no doubt remained in my mind; it was the head of a bullock or a heifer.  I shouted to the man to be careful, to stop and let the elephants plough through the undergrowth, as only elephants can.  But he did not understand my Hindustani, which was of the civilised Urdu kind learnt in the North-West Provinces.  The man went quickly along, and I tried to make the collector comprehend what I saw.  But the pad elephants were coming out of the water and forcing themselves between our beasts, and he hardly caught what I said in the confusion.  The track led away to my left, nearly opposite to the elephant bearing Mr. Ghyrkins and his niece.  The little Pegnugger man was on my right.  The native held on, moving more and more rapidly as he found himself following a single track.  I shouted to him—­to Ghyrkins—­to everybody, but they could not make the doomed man understand what I saw—­the freshly slain head of the tiger’s last victim.  There was little doubt that the king himself was near by—­probably in that suspicious-looking bit of green jungle, slimy green too, as green is, that grows in sticky chocolate-coloured mud.  The young fellow was courageous, and ignorant of the immediate danger, and, above all, he was on the look out for bucksheesh.  He reached the reeds and unclean vegetables that grew thick and foul together in the little patch.  He put one foot into the bush.

A great fiery yellow and black head rose cautiously above the level of the green and paused a moment, glaring.  The wretched man, transfixed with terror, stood stock still, expecting death.  Then he moved, as if to throw himself on one side, and at the same instant the tiger made a dash at his naked body, such a dash as a great relentless cat makes at a gold-fish trying to slide away from its grip.  The tiger struck the man a heavy blow on the right shoulder, felling him like a log, and coming down to a standing position over his prey, with one paw on the native’s right arm.  Probably the parade of elephants and bright coloured howdahs, and the shouts of the beaters and shikarries, distracted his attention for a moment.  He stood whirling his tail to right and left, with half dropped jaw and flaming eyes, half pressing, half grabbing the fleshy arm of the senseless man beneath him—­impatient, alarmed, and horrible.