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 sure. Your revered ancestor, my boy, according to the Bhils, has a tiger of his own—a saddle-tiger that he rides round the country whenever he feels inclined. _I_ don’t call it decent in an ex-Collector’s ghost; but that is what the Southern Bhils believe. Even our men, who might be called moderately cool, don’t care to beat that country if they hear that Jan Chinn is running about on his tiger. It is supposed to be a clouded animal—not stripy, but blotchy, like a tortoise-shell tom-cat. No end of a brute, it is, and a sure sign of war or pestilence or—or something. There’s a nice family legend for you.” “What’s the origin of it, d’ you suppose?” said Chinn.