“Pack!!!  Pi-i-i-i-ing ...” went the crack and the sing of the merry rifle, and the scene changed.

With a yell like a soul in everlasting torment the great beast whirled himself into the air ten feet at least, and fell dead beside his victim, shot through breast and breastbone and heart.  A dead silence fell on the spectators.  Then I looked, and saw Miss Westonhaugh holding out a second gun to Mr. Ghyrkins, while he, seeing that the first had done its work, leaned forward, his broad face pale with the extremity of his horror for the man’s danger, and his hands gripping at the empty rifle.

“You’ve done it this time,” cried the collector from the right.  “Take six to four the man’s dead!”

“Done,” called Kildare from the other end.  I was the nearest to the scene, after Ghyrkins.  I dropped over the edge of the howdah and made for the spot, running.  I think I reflected as I ran that it was rather low for men to bet on the poor fellow’s life in that way.  Tigers are often very deceptive and always die hard, and I am a cautious person, so when I was near I pulled out my long army six-shooter, and, going witihin arm’s length, quietly put a bullet through the beast’s eye as a matter of safety.  When he was cut up, however, the ball from the rifle of Mr. Ghyrkins was found in his heart; the old fellow was a dead shot still.  I went up and examined the prostrate man.  He was lying on his face, and so I picked him up and propped his head against the dead tiger.  He was still breathing, but a very little examination proved that his right collar-bone and the bone of his upper arm were broken.  A little brandy revived him, and he immediately began to scream with pain.  I was soon joined by the collector, who with characteristic promptitude had torn and hewed some broad slats of bamboo from his howdah, and with a little pulling and wrenching, and the help of my long, tough turban-cloth, a real native pugree, we set and bound the arm as best we could, giving the poor fellow brandy all the while.  The collar-bone we left to its own devices; an injury there takes care of itself.

An elephant came up and received the dead tiger, and the man was carried off and placed in my howdah.  The other animals with their riders had gathered near the scene, and every one had something to say to Ghyrkins, who by his brilliant shot and the life he had saved, had maintained his reputation, and come off the hero of the whole campaign.  Miss Westonhaugh was speechless with horror at the whole thing, and seemed to cling to her uncle, as if fearing something of the same kind might happen to her at any moment.  Isaacs, as usual the last on the line of beating, came up and called out his congratulations.

“After saving a life so well, Mr. Ghyrkins, you will not grudge me the poor honour of risking one, will you?”

“Not I, my boy!” answered the delighted old sportsman, “only if that mangy old man-eater had got you down the other day, I should not have been there to pot him!”