“Why, there is a story among tigers,” answered the ingenuous brute, “that at one time—but it’s a long time ago—we used to crop clover and trefoil and wild thyme, for all the world like foolish little lambs. And then suddenly—but how it came about I never heard—we took to eating the kids and lambkins that before we played with. How the change began, and who took to killing first, I know not: I have only heard it wasn’t tigers; and now, I only know that I must sup: that this very night I must have another Vandervermin. Have you any babies in the house?” “None: I assure you, my lord, not one,” answered the ghost. “That’s a pity,” said the tiger, “for I feel it, my stomach needs something tender and succulent. However, lead on: air and exercise may tone my vitals a little. Why do you tarry, sirrah?”—and the tiger growled like a stage tyrant—“you know your destiny; lead on.” The ghost seemed to feel the truthful force of the rebuke, and immediately led the way. As they walked on, the ghost espied a remarkably fine ox, strayed from a neighbouring farm. “See, my lord, see!” cried the shadow. “No, no,” said the tiger, a little contemptuously. “I can’t do that sort of thing now: having once tasted the goodness of man, I must go on with him. No, no; I thank my luck I now know what good living really is.” And then the tiger paused, and twisting its tail gracefully about its legs, as sometimes an ingenuous maid will twist about a gown flounce, the brute observed—“What a lovely night! How the air freshens one’s spirits! What a beautiful moon—and how the stars shine—and the airs whisper among the tamarind trees, like unseen fairies making love! You are sure, Jacob, there is not a baby in the house?” “Nothing like it, my lord,” answered Jacob. “What is the best you can promise me?” asked the tiger. “To-night, I’m afraid nothing better than Drusilla, my aunt,” said the ghost. The tiger growled dubiously; and then said, “Well, we can but look at her. You know the safest way—so mind what you’re about.” Cautiously, stealthily, goaded by fate, did the ghost of Jacob lead the tiger to the mansion of Peter Vandervermin. Leaping a low wall, they gained a garden, and proceeded along a winding walk, until they came to a pretty little summer pavilion, wherein sat aunt Drusilla, as was her wont, knitting, with a large Dutch pug at her feet. “There’s your supper,” said Jacob, pointing to the withered old gentlewoman. “Humph!” growled the tiger, and angrily twitched its tail—“humph! It’s against my stomach; I can’t do it.” “What think you,” urged the ghost, “of the pug just for a snack?” The tiger curled its whiskers with a look of disgust, and growling “dropsical,” turned supperless away. And all the next night did the tiger fast. But sweet is the sauce of hunger; for on the third evening the tiger rose and stretched itself, and its eyes glared with brightening flame as it said—“Come along, Jacob: I don’t know that the old woman will eat badly after all.”