Chinn, being practical above all things, saw that his family name served him well in the lines and in camp. His men gave no trouble—one does not commit regimental offences with a god in the chair of justice—and he was sure of the best beaters in the district when he needed them. They believed that the protection of Jan Chinn the First cloaked them, and were bold in that belief beyond the utmost daring of excited Bhils. His quarters began to look like an amateur natural-history museum, in spite of duplicate heads and horns and skulls that he sent home to Devonshire. The people, very humanly, learned the weak side of their god. It is true he was unbribable, but bird-skins, butterflies, beetles, and, above all, news of big game pleased him. In other respects, too, he lived up to the Chinn tradition. He was fever-proof. A night’s sitting out over a tethered goat in a damp valley, that would have filled the Major with a month’s malaria, had no effect on him. He was, as they said, “salted before he was born.” Now in the autumn of his second year’s service an uneasy rumour crept out of the earth and ran about among the Bhils. Chinn heard nothing of it till a brother-officer said across the mess-table: “Your revered ancestor’s on the rampage in the Satpura country. You’d better look him up.” “I don’t want to be disrespectful, but I’m a little sick of my revered ancestor. Bukta talks of nothing else. What’s the old boy supposed to be doing now?” “Riding cross-country by moonlight on his processional tiger. That’s the story. He’s been seen by about two thousand Bhils, skipping along the tops of the Satpuras, and scaring people to death. They believe it devoutly, and all the Satpura chaps are worshipping away at his shrine—tomb, I mean—like good ’uns. You really ought to go down there. Must be a queer thing to see your grandfather treated as a god.” “What makes you think there’s any truth in the tale?” said Chinn. “Because all our men deny it. They say they’ve never heard of Chinn’s tiger. Now that’s a manifest lie, because every Bhil _has_.” “There’s only one thing you’ve overlooked,” said the Colonel, thoughtfully. “When a local god reappears on earth, it’s always an excuse for trouble of some kind; and those Satpura Bhils are about as wild as your grandfather left them, young ’un. It means something.” “Meanin’ they may go on the war-path?” said Chinn. “Can’t say—as yet. Shouldn’t be surprised a little bit.” “I haven’t been told a syllable.” “Proves it all the more. They are keeping something back.” “Bukta tells me everything, too, as a rule. Now, why didn’t he tell me that?” Chinn put the question directly to the old man that night, and the answer surprised him. “Why should I tell what is well known? Yes, the Clouded Tiger is out in the Satpura country.” “What do the wild Bhils think that it means?” “They do not know. They wait. Sahib, what _is_ coming? Say only one little word, and we will be content.”