loaded his gun and,
running down the steps and across the garden, plunged into the jungle.
He walked cautiously, his rope-soled boots enabling him to move
silently, and stopped occasionally to listen for the bird's crow or the
telltale pattering over the dried leaves. Peering into the undergrowth
and searching the ground he crept quietly forward. Suddenly his heart
seemed to leap to his throat. In a patch of dust he saw the unmistakable
_pug_ (footprint) of a large panther. One claw had indented a new-fallen
leaf, showing that the animal had very recently passed. Wargrave halted
and thought hard. He had only his shotgun, but the sun was near its
setting and if he returned to the Mess to get his rifle--which was taken
to pieces and locked up in its case--darkness would probably fall before
he could overtake the panther, which was possibly moving on ahead of
him. So he resolved not to turn back, but opened the breech of his gun
and extracted the cartridges. With his knife he cut their thick cases
almost through all round at the wad, dividing the powder from the shot.
For he knew that thus treated and fired the whole upper portion of the
cartridges would be shot out of the barrels like solid bullets and carry
forty yards without breaking up and scattering the shot.

Reloading he advanced cautiously, frequently losing and refinding the
trail. Creeping through a clump of thin bushes he stopped suddenly,
frozen with horror and dread.

In an open patch of woodland the two Dermot children stood by a tree,
the girl huddled against the trunk, while the little boy had placed
himself in front of her and, with a small stick in his hand, was bravely
facing in her defence an animal crouching on the ground not twenty yards
away. It was a large panther. Belly to earth, tail lashing from side to
side, it was crawling slowly, imperceptibly nearer its prey. With ears
flattened against the skull and lips drawn back to bare the gleaming
fangs in a devilish grin it snarled at the brave child whose dauntless
attitude doubtless puzzled it.

"Don't cry, Eileen. I won't let it hurt you," said the little boy
encouragingly. "Go 'way, nasty dog!"

He raised his little stick above his head. A boy should always protect a
girl, his father had often said, so he was not going to let the beast
harm his tiny sister. The panther crouched lower. The watcher in the
bushes saw the powerful limbs gathering under the spotted body for the
fatal spring. Every