o you know where to hit him?" asked Jim, who, having fully recovered his
wind, seemed at the same time to have regained a vast amount of curious
knowledge of natural history.

"I s'pose in the head is as good as any place."

"Don't you think of such a thing! He don't mind being hit in the head
more than you do getting hit by a spit-ball. You must aim for his tail!"

"How can that hurt him?" asked the amazed Tom.

"Why, I seed the balls that hit his head glance off and scoot up in the
air, like skipping stones over the water. A tiger uses his tail to balance
himself with. Shoot off his tail, and he loses his balance. Every time he
tries to walk, he tips over. Don't forget, Tom, if you shoot, to aim at
his tail, just where it is stuck onto his body. If you miss, look him in
the eye; and if that doesn't stop him, let drive with your foot under the
jaw, and don't forget to have your shoes on. Well, I must go home to tell
the folks to git ready," added Jim, loping off like an Indian starting on
a long journey.

Tom had caught the contagion of excitement, and the moment his friend left
he made a dash for the door of his home, bursting in upon his mother and
aunt with the astounding news just received from his playmate.

Strange women would they have been not to have been wrought up by the
alarming tidings. Brushing aside the chaff, there remained the wheat in
Jim's words to the effect that the tiger, one of the finest of his kind
ever seen in captivity, had broken out of his cage, injured, if not
killed, a number of people, and was in the immediate neighborhood, with
the prospect of paying a visit to this home.

"The gun is loaded," said the mother, turning slightly pale; "but I don't
think one of those animals will attempt to enter a house."

"I have read that in India," remarked her sister-in-law, "they follow the
natives into their houses, and tear down the structures in their fury."

"But their dwellings are made of light bamboo, and are frail structures."

"We may as well be on the right side," remarked the other, stepping
hastily to the door. But just before reaching it, the latch flew up, and
Jim Travers plunged in, falling on his hands and knees, the picture of
terror itself.

"Shut the door quick!" he gasped. "The tiger is coming; he's coming; he's
right behind me."

In a twinkling, Aunt Cynthia sprang forward, caught the latch, and slid
the heavy bar in place, while the mother hastened to the window.