he Blue Toll to another. . . . But I've seen things
done--yes, I've seen things done in this man's India. . . . I saw a
man from one of the little brotherhoods of the Vindhas breathe a nest
of cobras into repose; also I have seen other brothers pass through
places where the deadly little karait is supposed to watch and wait and
turn red-eyed."

The more Skag listened and learned and watched in India, the more he
realised that if he knew all there was to know about the different
orders of holy men, all the rest of knowledge would be included, even
the lore of the jungle animals. He had come into his own considerable
awe through what he had seen in the forest with the priests of Hanuman,
but things-to-learn stretched away and away before him like range upon
range of High Himalaya.

Malcolm M'Cord was the best rifle-shot in India. The natives called
him Hand-of-a-God. As usual they meant a lot more than a mere
decoration. M'Cord was one of the big master mechanics--especially
serving Indian Government in engine building--a Scot nearing fifty now.
For many years he had answered the cries of the natives for help
against the destroyers of human life. Sometimes it was a mugger,
sometimes a cobra, a cheetah, often a man-eating tiger that terrorised
the countryside. There are many sizeable Indian villages where there
is not a single rifle or short piece in the place; repeated instances
where one pampered beast has taken his tolls of cattle and children of
men, for several years.

The natives are slow to take life of any creature. They are suspicious
toward anyone who does it thoughtlessly, or for pastime; but the Hindu
also believes that one is within the equity of preservation in doing
away with those ravagers that learn to hunt men.

In the early days M'Cord began to take the famous shoot trophies. Time
came when this sort of thing was no longer a gamesome event, but a
foregone conclusion. His rifle work was a revelation of genius--like
the work of a prodigious young pianist or billiardist in the midst of
mere natural excellence.

He had wearied of the game-bag end of shooting, even before his prowess
in the tournaments became a bore. . . . So there was only the big
philanthropy left. The silent steady Scot gave himself more and more
to this work for the hunted villagers as the years went on. It
sufficed. Many a man has stopped riding or walking for mere exercise,
but joyously, and with much profit, take