2.  “Sir, I have the honour to report that there has been no Scandinavians in the district this year, but it is raging furiously at Rika.” (Plague.)

3.  “Sir, I have the honour to report two Scandinavians were seen at Gopalbung.  One was shot by Billie Burke Sahib, the other has not since returned.” (Tigers.)

That is a good, but somewhat involved, story.  Another was about a missionary who had been eaten by a tiger.  The police wired, “A tiger has man-eaten the Pope of Ramnugger.”

Yesterday the Listers had a duck-shoot.  About twenty men came from all round, and Mrs. Lister and I went with them.  We drove two and two to a very large lake and then set sail in queer native boats punted by natives.  Of course I wanted to go with Boggley, but was sent off with a strange man, one Major Griffiths, who eyed me with great dislike because he said my light dress would frighten the birds.  It got frightfully hot with the sun beating on the water, and I simply dared not put up a sunshade in case of scaring the birds more than I was already doing, and thereby increasing the wrath of my companion.  He shot a lot of ducks, but evidently not so many as he thought he ought to shoot, and when he saw the birds all congregated at one corner of the lake a thought struck him, and he told the natives to take us to shore.  He got out and beckoned me to follow, which I obediently did, and together we crawled through the jungle, with the bandar-log chattering above us and—­for all I know to the contrary—­snakes hissing beneath our feet.  If I stepped, which I could hardly avoid doing sometimes, on a fallen branch, making it crackle, the man turned on me a glance so malignant I positively quailed.  Breathlessly we crept to the water-side and the unsuspecting ducks, and then Major Griffiths fired into the brown,—­is that the proper expression?—­killing I don’t know how many.  I don’t think it was at all a nice thing to do, but my opinion was neither asked nor desired.  Even then my friend was not satisfied, and he voyaged about until I knew luncheon was long since a thing of the past, and I hated so the shape of his face I could have screamed.  When at last we did return, I found my surmise as to luncheon had been only too correct, and we had to content ourselves with scraps.  The next duck-shoot I attend I shall choose as companion a less earnest sportsman.

The weather is beginning to stoke-up, as Boggley calls it, and during the day the tent is insufferable.  I can sit outside it in the early morning, but as the sun gets up Autolycus summons the chuprassis, and they carry my table and writing-materials to the verandah of the Guest House, which has a cool, not to say clammy and tomb-like, atmosphere.  My chief trials are the insects.  There is a land of large black beetle with wings that has a strange habit of poising itself just above my head and remaining there.  Someone told me—­who I forget; anyway, Boggley says it isn’t true, but it seems quite likely—­that if these beetles drop on you they explode.  Did you ever hear of anything quite so horrible?  I keep a wary eye on them and shift my seat at their approach.