I confess that after such an exhibition of temper on the part of the tiger and the nature of the jungle I, being Europeanly speaking single-handed, was not so very comfortable at the idea of approaching him, but luckily a toddyman who had run up a tree (these men are wonderful climbers) when the tiger charged, and was afraid for some time to come down, now emerged from the jungle, and reported that he could see the tiger from the tree he had climbed into.  This of course much simplified matters, and I at once proceeded into the jungle, but only about ten people, mostly my own followers, cared to accompany me.  As it happened, we after all ran no risk whatever, as the tiger was dead, though he was lying with his head on his paws in such a life-like position that we fired a shot into him to make sure.  When we were skinning him the poor man expired.  In the same jungle, I think about a year afterwards, an English visitor at my house wounded a tiger, which went into one of those reedy and cactus-grown bottoms which make tiger shooting on foot so dangerous.  I then declared that none of my people should go into this, and that they might return the next day and see if the tiger was dead (by no means an absolutely safe proceeding even then as we have seen).  Much to my amusement a lean toddy drawer of mine, an excellent shikari, went a few yards into the swampy ground, got on to a small boulder of rock, squatted down, took out his betel bag, threw some betel into his mouth preparatory to chewing, and then held out his long skinny arm and forefinger and said, “Look!  A tiger made a meal of a man close to this last year.  Let everyone therefore be careful and get up into trees, and mind what they are about.”  The next day the tiger was found dead quite close to the rock he had been squatting on.  A most remarkable instance of courage on the part of a native occurred when a brother planter of mine was out tiger shooting on the Ghauts to the north of my abode.  A tiger flew at a Hindoo peasant—­a first-rate plucky sportsman, and as the tiger charged, the man struck at it with his hacking knife (a formidable weapon in the hands of a man who knows how to use it, and used to cut underwood, and thick boughs of trees), with the result that the tiger’s skull was split open and the animal killed on the spot.  The native was thrown backwards with great force, and his head came in contact with a stone.  He got up, and by this time was surrounded by the people, when, holding out his hand, he said, “Look here,” and then paused.  Everyone expected some remark about the tiger, but, amidst general laughter—­for the natives have a keen sense of humour—­he continued, “There will be a bump on my head to-morrow as big as a cocoanut.”  And now, as we have heard so much of the courage of man, it is time that the dogs should have their turn, and I will conclude these reminiscences with an account of how a dog saved the life of the brother planter to whom I have just alluded.  I was so much interested in the story that I wrote down the particulars in my diary at the time and read them over to my informant to make sure they were right.  I give the account verbatim as I took it down at the time.