Roscoe. "There will be no bag, no
tiger skin, claws, whiskers, or fat. As long as I've been in
Rangoon--and that's some years--I've been hearing of this same tiger.
Dozens of parties have been out after him, with no success; he is still
living on his reputation--just a myth and a fortune to the trappers.
Lower Burma is much too wet a district for the great cat tribe."

"But I am told that there are plenty of elephants and tigers in this
district," argued Shafto. "And what about the tiger that was actually
crawling on the Pagoda not so very long ago! Why, hundreds of people
saw the brute; it was shot by a fellow called Bacon."

As this was a hard and unanswerable fact Roscoe was for the moment
silenced. After a short pause he continued:

"All the same, I don't believe in the Elephant Point tiger; the other
was no doubt a pious beast--who came from Chin Hills to make a
pilgrimage."

"You'll have a fine, rough journey, me boy." said FitzGerald; "nasty
deep swamps, terrible thorn thickets, grass ten foot high--it wouldn't
be _my_ idea of pleasure."

"No," retorted Shafto, "tiger shooting and turkey-trotting are widely
apart."

"But look here," exclaimed FitzGerald, as if struck by a thought and
now sitting holt upright. "Mind you keep your eyes skinned and your
ears pricked when you are down there," and he threw his friend a
significant glance; "you never know your luck, and you might happen on
valuable _kubber_--and start some rare sort of game."

FitzGerald's warning was amply justified; the tiger-shooting expedition
proved a much rougher business than the sportsmen had anticipated.
Once they quitted the roads and foot-path, vegetation became rank and
overpowering and in places impassable. Swampy ground, dense thorn
thickets and elephant grass made progress enormously difficult--the
jungle guards well its many secrets and is full of dangers to mankind.

It was a bright moonlight night when Shafto and his companions alighted
at the selected area and tossed for posts. These were at a
considerable distance apart, each in a tree, over a "tie-up"--which, on
this occasion, happened to be a goat.

The hours dragged along slowly; Shafto, doubled up in a cramped
position on a _machan_, felt painfully stiff and was obliged to deny
himself the comfort of a cigarette. There was no sound beyond the
bleat of the victim--unwittingly summoning its executioner, the buzz of
myriads of insects, the bass booming of frog