“Yes, I have heard plenty about him; it is unfortunate we have no one at this station who goes in for tiger hunting. Young Bloxam was speaking to me last night; he is very hot about it; but as he knows nothing about shooting, and has never fired off a rifle in his life, except at the military target, I told him that it was madness to think of it by himself, and that he had better ride down to the regiment at Cawnpore, and get them to form a party to come up to hunt the beast. I told him they need not bring elephants with them; I could get as many as were necessary from some of the Talookdars, and there will be no want of beaters. He said he would write at once, but he doubted whether any of them would be able to get away at present; the general inspection is just coming on. However, no doubt they will be able to do so before long.” “Well, if I were you I would put a pair of pistols into my holster, Bathurst; it would be awfully awkward if you came across the beast.” “I never carry firearms,” the young man said shortly; and then more lightly, “I am a peaceful man by profession, as you are, Mr. Hunter, and I leave firearms to those whose profession it is to use them. I have hitherto never met with an occasion when I needed them, and am not likely to do so. I always carry this heavy hunting whip, which I find useful sometimes, when the village dogs rush out and pretend that they are going to attack me; and I fancy that even an Oude swordsman would think twice before attacking me when I had it in my hand. But, of course, there is no fear about the tiger. I generally ride pretty fast; and even if he were lying by the roadside waiting for a meal, I don’t think he would be likely to interfere with me.” So saying, he lightly touched the horse’s flanks with his spurs and cantered off. “He’s a fine young fellow, Garnet,” Mr. Hunter said to his companion; “full of energy, and, they say, the very best linguist in Oude.” “Yes, he is all that,” the other agreed; “but he is a sort of fellow one does not quite understand. I like a man who is like other fellows; Bathurst isn’t. He doesn’t shoot, he doesn’t ride--I mean he don’t care for pig sticking; he never goes in for any fun there may be on hand; he just works--nothing else; he does not seem to mix with other people; he is the sort of fellow one would say had got some sort of secret connected with him.”