wrapped up in a newspaper and ready for use, and with
all the other hundred and one things that a native servant contrives to
carry about without breaking or losing one of them, is an unsolved
puzzle. Yet there he is, clean and grinning as ever, and if he were not
clean and grinning and provided with tea and cheroots, you would not
keep him in your service a day, though you would be incapable of looking
half so spotless and pleased under the same circumstances yourself.

On the following day, therefore, we found ourselves at Pegnugger,
surrounded by shikarries and provided with every instrument of the chase
that the ingenuity of man and the foresight of Isaacs and Ghyrkins could
provide. There were numbers of tents, sleeping tents, cooking tents, and
servants' tents; guns and ammunition of every calibre likely to be
useful; _kookries_, broad strong weapons not unlike the famous American
bowie knives (which are all made in Sheffield, to the honour, glory, and
gain, of British trade); there were huge packs of provisions edible and
potable; baskets of utensils for the kitchen and the table, and piles of
blankets and tenting gear for the camp. There was also the little
collector of Pegnugger, whose small body housed a stout heart, for he
had shot tigers on foot before now in company with a certain German
doctor of undying sporting fame, whose big round spectacles seemed to
direct his bullets with unerring precision. But the doctor was not here
now, and so the sturdy Englishman condescended to accept a seat in the
howdah, and to kill his game with somewhat less risk than usual.

This first day was occupied in transferring our party, now swelled by
countless beaters and numerous huntsmen, not to mention all the retinue
of servants necessary for an Indian camp, to the neighbourhood of the
battlefield. There is not much conversation on these occasions, for the
party is apt to become scattered, and there is a general tone of
expectancy in the air, the old hands conversing more with the natives
who know the district than with each other, and the young ones either
wondering how many tigers they will kill, or listening open mouthed to
the tales of adventure reeled off by the yard by the old bearded
shikarry, who has slain the king of the jungle with a _kookrie_ in hand
to hand struggle when he was young, and bears the scars of the deadly
encounter on his brown chest to this day. Old Ghyrkins, who was
evidently in his element, rode