One tremendous old boar was killed here during one of our meets, which was long celebrated in our after-dinner talks on boars and hunting.  It was called ‘THE LUNGRA,’ which means the cripple, because it had been wounded in the leg in some previous encounter, perhaps in its hot youth, before age had stiffened its joints and tinged its whiskers with grey.  It was the most undaunted pig I have ever seen.  It would not budge an inch for the beaters, and charged the elephants time after time, sending them flying from the jungle most ignominiously.  At length its patience becoming exhausted, it slowly emerged from the jungle, coolly surveyed the scene and its surroundings, and then, disdaining flight, charged straight at the nearest horseman.  Its hide was as tough as a Highland targe, and though L. delivered his spear, it turned the weapon aside as if it was merely a thrust from a wooden pole.  The old lungra made good his charge, and ripped L’s. horse on the shoulder.  It next charged Pat, and ripped his horse, and cut another horse, a valuable black waler, across the knee, laming it for life.  Rider after rider charged down upon the fierce old brute.  Although repeatedly wounded none of the thrusts were very serious, and already it had put five horses hors de combat.  It now took up a position under a big ‘bhur’ tree, close to some water, and while the boldest of us held back for a little, it took a deliberate mud bath under our very noses.  Doubtless feeling much refreshed, it again took up its position under the tree, ready to face each fresh assailant, full of fight, and determined to die but not to yield an inch.

Time after time we rode at the dauntless cripple.  Each time he charged right down, and our spears made little mark upon his toughened hide.  Our horses too were getting tired of such a customer, and little inclined to face his charge.  At length ‘Jamie’ delivered a lucky spear and the grey old warrior fell.  It had kept us at bay for fully an hour and a half, and among our number we reckoned some of the best riders and boldest pig-stickers in the district.

Such was our sport in those good old days.  Our meets came but seldom, so that sport never interfered with the interests of honest hard work; but meeting each other as we did, and engaging in exciting sport like pig-sticking, cemented our friendship, kept us in health, and encouraged all the hardy tendencies of our nature.  It whetted our appetites, it roused all those robust virtues that have made Englishmen the men they are, it sent us back to work with lighter hearts and renewed energy.  It built up many happy, cherished memories of kindly words and looks and deeds, that will only fade when we in turn have to bow before the hunter, and render up our spirits to God who gave them.  Long live honest, hearty, true sportsmen, such as were the friends of those happy days.  Long may Indian sportsmen find plenty of ’foemen worthy of their steel’ in the old grey boar, the fighting tusker of Bengal.