“Tiger shooting where?” inquired Roscoe.

“Somewhere near Elephant Point, with Stafford of the Buffers,” replied Shafto.  “We have got leave, a pass and two trackers.”

“You’ll find it a pretty expensive business,” remarked the canny Scotsman.

“Worse than that!” supplemented Roscoe.  “There will be no bag, no tiger skin, claws, whiskers, or fat.  As long as I’ve been in Rangoon—­and that’s some years—­I’ve been hearing of this same tiger.  Dozens of parties have been out after him, with no success; he is still living on his reputation—­just a myth and a fortune to the trappers.  Lower Burma is much too wet a district for the great cat tribe.”

“But I am told that there are plenty of elephants and tigers in this district,” argued Shafto.  “And what about the tiger that was actually crawling on the Pagoda not so very long ago!  Why, hundreds of people saw the brute; it was shot by a fellow called Bacon.”

As this was a hard and unanswerable fact Roscoe was for the moment silenced.  After a short pause he continued: 

“All the same, I don’t believe in the Elephant Point tiger; the other was no doubt a pious beast—­who came from Chin Hills to make a pilgrimage.”

“You’ll have a fine, rough journey, me boy.” said FitzGerald; “nasty deep swamps, terrible thorn thickets, grass ten foot high—­it wouldn’t be my idea of pleasure.”

“No,” retorted Shafto, “tiger shooting and turkey-trotting are widely apart.”

“But look here,” exclaimed FitzGerald, as if struck by a thought and now sitting holt upright.  “Mind you keep your eyes skinned and your ears pricked when you are down there,” and he threw his friend a significant glance; “you never know your luck, and you might happen on valuable kubber—­and start some rare sort of game.”

FitzGerald’s warning was amply justified; the tiger-shooting expedition proved a much rougher business than the sportsmen had anticipated.  Once they quitted the roads and foot-path, vegetation became rank and overpowering and in places impassable.  Swampy ground, dense thorn thickets and elephant grass made progress enormously difficult—­the jungle guards well its many secrets and is full of dangers to mankind.

It was a bright moonlight night when Shafto and his companions alighted at the selected area and tossed for posts.  These were at a considerable distance apart, each in a tree, over a “tie-up”—­which, on this occasion, happened to be a goat.

The hours dragged along slowly; Shafto, doubled up in a cramped position on a machan, felt painfully stiff and was obliged to deny himself the comfort of a cigarette.  There was no sound beyond the bleat of the victim—­unwittingly summoning its executioner, the buzz of myriads of insects, the bass booming of frogs and the stealthy, mysterious movements of night birds and small animals.  Then by degrees the moon waned and the stars faded—­though the sky was still light.  It was about three o’clock in the morning and Shafto was beginning to agree with Roscoe respecting the tiger myth and to feel uncommonly drowsy, when his ear was struck by a far-away sound, entirely distinct from buzzing insects or booming frogs.