All the line of course are aware, as a rule, when a tiger is on the move, and a good captain (and Joe S., who generally took the direction of our beats, could not well be matched) will wheel the line, double, turn, march, and countermarch, and fairly run the tiger down.  At such a time, although you may not actually see the tiger, the excitement is tremendous.  You stand erect in the howdah, your favourite gun ready; your attendant behind is as excited as yourself, and sways from side to side to peer into the gloomy depths of the jungle; in front, the mahout wriggles on his seat, as if by his motion he could urge the elephant to a quicker advance.  He digs his toes savagely into his elephant behind the ear; the line is closing up; every eye is fixed on the moving jungle ahead.  The roaring of the flames behind, and the crashing of the dried reeds as the elephants force their ponderous frames through the intertwisted stems and foliage, are the only sounds that greet the ear.  Suddenly you see the tawny yellow hide, as the tiger slouches along.  Your gun rings out a reverberating challenge, as your fatal bullet speeds on its errand.  To right and left the echoes ring, as shot after shot is fired at the bounding robber.  Then the line closes up, and you form a circle round the stricken beast, and watch his mighty limbs quiver in the death-agony, and as he falls over dead, and powerless for further harm, you raise the heartfelt, pulse-stirring cheer, that finds an echo in every brother sportman’s heart.

Disputes sometimes arise as to whose bullet first drew blood.  These are settled by the captain, and from his decision there is no appeal.  Many sportsmen put peculiar marks on their bullets, by which they can be recognised, which is a good plan.  In an exciting scrimmage every one blazes at the tiger, not one bullet perhaps in five or six takes effect, and every one is ready to claim the skin, as having been pierced with his particular bullet.  Disputes are not very common, but an inspection of the wounds, and the bullets found in the body, generally settle the question.  After hearing all the pros and cons, the captain generally succeeds in awarding the tiger to the right man.

After a successful day, the news rapidly spreads through the adjacent country, and we may take the line a little out of our way to make a sort of triumphal procession through the villages.  On reaching the camp there is sure to be a great crowd waiting to see the slain tigers, the despoilers of the people’s flocks and herds.

It is then you hear of all the depredations the dead robber has committed, and it is then you begin to form some faint conception of his enormous destructive powers.  Villager after villager unfolds a tale of some favourite heifer, or buffalo, or cow having been struck down, and the copious vocabulary of Hindostanee Billingsgate is almost exhausted, and floods of abuse poured out on the prostrate head.