"Oh, yes; 'twas a mighty tough skin." "Not so tough as your yarn, Uncle. So long!" CHAPTER THREE. UNCLE ABE, THE BABOON, AND THE TIGER. Abe Pike was one of those men who would walk ten miles to set a trap without a murmur, while he thought himself badly used if he were called upon to hoe a row in the mealie field. So when, for the third time within one week, a calf was killed by a tiger, and our attempts to shoot, poison, or trap the thief had failed, I rode over to Uncle Abe's to secure his aid. "I can't do it," he said, when I had stated my business. "Too busy?" "No; 'taint that, sonny, 'taint that--tho' there's a powerful heap o' work to do on that shed." "I'll put in a couple of days and help you finish it right off, as soon as the tiger is laid by the heels." "Thank ye kindly; but I've got to finish that there shed offun my own bat. It's a job that wants doin' keerfly." "Well, Uncle, I'll plough up your old land by the hoek, and put in two muids of corn. How will that do?" "'Twont do, my lad; that land's full o' charlock." "Then, Uncle, the day you show me the dead body of that tiger, the red heifer with the white patch on the hump is yours." He heaved a sigh, and knocked the bowl of his pipe on his thumb, but he did not accept the offer, though I knew he admired that heifer. "Why, Uncle, what is the matter? You're not ill?" "'Tain't that, either--not 'xactly--tho' there's such a thing as illness o' the mind." "I'm very sorry," as I unhitched the bridle and prepared to mount, "for I'll have to go to Long Sam, and from the hairs I've seen I shouldn't be surprised if this is a black tiger." This was the last shot--Abe Pike had not yet trapped a black tiger, and Long Sam was his rival in bush lore. "That settles it," he said, with a groan. "Come along then," I said, with a smile at my success in breaking through his obstinacy. Abe rose up and laid his gnarled hand on the mane of the horse. "'Tis the same one," he muttered, "the same one, sure." "Why, of course; you know the old horse, Black Dick." "Black Nick," he said slowly, and, drawing his hand across his forehead; "my boy, you'll never trap that animile; he's a witch tiger." "A witch tiger?" "That's so: he's given a lodging to some ole Kaffir. Abe Pike ain't going arter any black tigers, not he." "What are you driving at now, you old buffer?" "Buffer, is it; well--well--buffer--oh, yes, of course; an' me that has passed through sich a three weeks as ud have scared many another into his grave." I felt remorse at the thought that for three weeks I had not called on the lonely old man, and concluded that he was paying me out for this neglect. "I am very sorry," I said eagerly, "I have not been over; but the truth is the work has been very heavy. It must have been very lonely." "I've had kempany." "Oh, I see; and perhaps they've engaged your services?" "That's it. On 'count o' 'em that's been callin' here I can't go catching any black tigers."