Next moment both he and Ferrier were shaking their sides with laughter, almost hysterical now that the tension was relaxed. The Bengali, too much overcome with terror to be aware of his safety, was scrambling up a thorn tree with an agility that would have done credit to a slimmer man. Up he went, frantically swinging himself from bough to bough. Half way up he lost his puggaree, snatched from his head by a long spike, and every stage of his ascent was marked by little bits of his white cotton dhoti left clinging to the branches. For some moments John was helpless with laughter, but at last he managed to shout to Said Mohammed to come down, for the beast was dead. The shout only made him climb the faster, nor did he stop until he was perched on the topmost branch, his white robe flapping in tatters about him. Nothing would induce him to budge until the lion’s head had been cut off, to be carried back to the farm as a trophy. Then he descended, much more slowly than he had mounted, and with a piteous effort to regain his dignity that was too much for John and Ferrier, who turned their backs so that he should not see their amusement. These excitements were considered enough for one day, and the party set off for home, the natives carrying the lion’s head and shouting a song of triumph. John said nothing to Said Mohammed until he thought his composure was restored. Then he said-- "I owe you my life, khansaman. It was very plucky of you to draw the lion after you, and I shan’t forget it.--Shut up!" he whispered to Ferrier, who emitted a sort of gurgle. A gratified smile stole across the Bengali’s face. "I am quite bucked, sir," he said. "Your words are sweeter than honey. When your honoured parent returns to this vale of woe, my heart will be in my mouth when I say to him: ’Lo! here is your progeny, whom I, Said Mohammed, failed B.A. of Calcutta University, saved from the jaws of the lion. If I had not been on the spot he would have been absolutely up a gum-tree.’" Ferrier guffawed. "Why didn’t you do as your uncle did in the Sunderbunds?" he asked presently, unable to resist the temptation of a sly dig at the failed B.A. "The absence of one ingredient, sir, spoils the sauce. It was rotten nuisance, but I forgot _in toto_ the words of the charm." CHAPTER THE TWELFTH--The Sack of the Farm At breakfast on the day after the lion-hunt Ferrier, who was silent and seemed embarrassed, said suddenly-- "I say, old boy, d’you know I’ve been here nearly two months?" "What! Getting tired of it?" said John, with a smile. "Not a bit; only--well, to put it straight, I’ve been here so long that I ought to pay for my keep." "Rot!" "I mean it. It’s all very well to be your guest for a week or two, and I’m jolly comfortable, but to hang on like this--no, really, I ought to pay something to help keep the pot boiling."