I remember shooting one ghastly old scaly villain in a tank near Ryseree.  He had made this tank his home, and with that fatalism which is so characteristic of the Hindoo, the usual ablutions and bathings went on as if no such monster existed.  Several woman having been carried off, however, at short intervals, the villagers asked me to try and rid them of their foe.  I took a ride down to the tank one Friday morning, and found the banks a scene of great excitement.  A woman had been carried off some hours before as she was filling her water jar, and the monster was now reposing at the bottom of the tank digesting his horrible meal.  The tank was covered with crimson water-lilies in full bloom, their broad brown and green leaves showing off the crimson beauty of the open flower.  At the north corner some wild rose bushes dropped over the water, casting a dense matted shade.  Here was the haunt of the mugger.  He had excavated a huge gloomy-looking hole, into which he retired when gorged with prey.  My first care was to cut away some of these bushes, and then, finding he was not at home, we drove some bamboo stakes through the bank to prevent him getting into his manu, which is what the natives term the den or hole.  I then sat down under a goolar tree, to wait for his appearance.  The goolar is a species of fig, and the leaves are much relished by cattle and goats.  Gradually the village boys and young men went off to their ploughing, or grass cutting for the cows’ evening meal.  A woman came down occasionally to fill her waterpot in evident fear and trembling.  A swarm of minas (the Indian starling) hopped and twittered round my feet.  The cooing of a pair of amatory pigeons overhead nearly lulled me to slumber.  A flock of green parrots came swiftly circling overhead, making for the fig-tree at the south end of the tank.  An occasional raho lazily rose among the water-lilies, and disappeared with an indolent flap of his tail.  The brilliant kingfisher, resplendent in crimson and emerald, sat on the withered branch of a prostrate mango-tree close by, pluming his feathers and doubtless meditating on the vanity of life.  Suddenly, close by the massive post which marks the centre of every Hindoo tank, a huge scaly snout slowly and almost imperceptibly rose to the surface, then a broad, flat, forbidding forehead, topped by two grey fishy eyes with warty-looking callosities for eyebrows.  Just then an eager urchin who had been squatted by me for hours, pointed to the brute.  It was enough.  Down sank the loathsome creature, and we had to resume our attitude of expectation and patient waiting.  Another hour passed slowly.  It was the middle of the afternoon, and very hot.  I had sent my tokedar off for a ‘peg’ to the factory, and was beginning to get very drowsy, when, right in the same spot, the repulsive head again rose slowly to the surface.  I had my trusty No. 12 to my shoulder on the instant, glanced carefully along the barrels, but just then