“Forgive me, I have high fever, Ma-ji,” he shivered, addressing her by the honoured name of mother, as is the custom of Indian servants in an Indian household.

She turned again to her husband who said:  “I know what is in the poor old fellow’s mind.  He has an idea he will be killed by a tiger.  However, tell him there is no danger.  I am taking a large number of bearers and he can keep near the palki.”

Mrs. Gupta tried to cheer the servant with this information but he wailed:  “Ma-ji, I am afraid.  Surely a tiger will kill me to-night.”

“Do not fear,” consoled the kind lady.  “Your master will take good care of you.”  “Go you must,” she continued in a firm tone.  “There is no one except you who knows his ways and can see to his comfort.  Now get ready quickly.”

“Oh, Ma-ji,” he sobbed like a child, “I obey, but my heart is heavy.”

Mr. Gupta had to travel through the night.  After an early dinner he started, attended by many palki-bearers and the old servant.  The moon rose bright and glorious and bathed the picturesque country in soft radiance.  The silence of the forest was broken only by the rhythmic cries of the bearers and the pat-pat of their feet.  The first stream was reached and the bearers asked for a halt.  Consent granted, they went into the stream to drink of the deeper water.  The old servant crouched by the palki.

“Thirstest not?” kindly asked his master.

“Babu-ji, I feel nervous.  I will stay near you.”

Gupta wondered what might have unstrung the man, and felt sorry for him.  “Come and sit close to me,” he said.

The night was cold and the old bearer, huddled in his blanket, sat on the edge of the palki door.

Suddenly the stillness of the night was broken by a rapid crash through the dry grass near the palki, and with a thrilling roar a tiger leapt at the man and dragged him away.  The palki shook, and the bearer’s piteous cry “Babu-ji, Babu-ji, I told you” filled the forest, and echoed and echoed again as the tiger bore him away.  Then all became still.

Gupta realised what had happened.  He lay back sick with horror, and felt as if he were the guilty one.  For many a day the old man’s dying wail rang in his ears.

Through the Roof

They were laying the railway through the Hazaribagh district, and in a low-roofed bungalow at Giridih lived the Engineer in charge of the work.  He was a young Englishman and his only recreation in this dreary place was riding and shooting.

The coolies lived in frail little mat houses in the same enclosure as his bungalow.  One morning they came to him in a body to tell him that during the night a tiger had carried off one of their cows.  The next morning another cow was missing, and on the third his servants awakened him with the news that his Arab pony was gone.

He loved the little animal.  Many a mile had he scoured on its back.  “Stripes” must be punished for this.  He would sit up the coming night and watch.