no money and no rank within the gift of the Government would have
induced him to put studs in young officers' shirts, or to hand them
clean ties. Yet, when he took off his uniform that night, and squatted
among his fellows for a quiet smoke, he told them what he had done, and
they said that he was entirely right. Thereat Bukta propounded a
theory which to a white mind would have seemed raving insanity; but
the whispering, level-headed little men of war considered it from every
point of view, and thought that there might be a great deal in it.

At mess under the oil-lamps the talk turned as usual to the unfailing
subject of shikar--big game-shooting of every kind and under all sorts
of conditions. Young Chinn opened his eyes when he understood that each
one of his companions had shot several tigers in the Wuddar style--on
foot, that is--making no more of the business than if the brute had been
a dog.

"In nine cases out of ten," said the Major, "a tiger is almost as
dangerous as a porcupine. But the tenth time you come home feet first."

That set all talking, and long before midnight Chinn's brain was in
a whirl with stories of tigers--man-eaters and cattle-killers each
pursuing his own business as methodically as clerks in an office; new
tigers that had lately come into such-and-such a district; and old,
friendly beasts of great cunning, known by nicknames in the mess-such as
"Puggy," who was lazy, with huge paws, and "Mrs. Malaprop," who turned
up when you never expected her, and made female noises. Then they spoke
of Bhil superstitions, a wide and picturesque field, till young Chinn
hinted that they must be pulling his leg.

"'Deed, we aren't," said a man on his left. "We know all about you.
You're a Chinn and all that, and you've a sort of vested right here; but
if you don't believe what we're telling you, what will you do when old
Bukta begins his stories? He knows about ghost-tigers, and tigers that
go to a hell of their own; and tigers that walk on their hind feet; and
your grandpapa's riding-tiger, as well. 'Odd he hasn't spoken of that
yet."

"You know you've an ancestor buried down Satpura way, don't you?" said
the Major, as Chinn smiled irresolutely.

"Of course I do," said Chinn, who had the chronicle of the Book of Chinn
by heart. It lies in a worn old ledger on the Chinese lacquer table
behind the piano in the Devonshire home, and the children are allowed to
look at it on Sundays.

"Well, I wasn't s