ailing vines,
stumbling over unseen logs, and drenching herself to the skin with the
dew from the leaves and grasses against which she brushed. A little
before daybreak she made her way, as I have described, to her father's
house, there to tell the tale of her strange adventure.

The story of what had occurred was speedily noised through the villages,
and the parents with marriageable daughters, who had been disappointed
by Haji Ali's choice of a wife, rejoiced exceedingly, and did not forget
to tell Patimah's papa and mamma that they had always anticipated
something of the sort. Haji Ali made no effort to regain possession of
his wife, and his neighbours drawing a natural inference from his
actions, avoided him and his sons until they were forced to live in
almost complete isolation.

But the drama of the Were-Tiger of Slim was to have a final act.

One night a fine young water-buffalo, the property of the Headman,
Penghulu Mat Saleh, was killed by a tiger, and its owner, saying no word
to any man upon the subject, constructed a cunningly arranged spring-gun
over the carcase. The trigger-lines were so set that should the tiger
return to finish the meal, which he had begun by tearing a couple of
hurried mouthfuls from the rump of his kill, he must infallibly be
wounded or slain by the bolts and slugs with which the gun was charged.

Next night a loud report, breaking in clanging echoes through the
stillness, an hour or two before the dawn was due, apprised Penghulu Mat
Saleh that some animal had fouled the trigger-lines. In all probability
it was the tiger, and if he was wounded he would not be a pleasant
creature to meet on a dark night. Accordingly Penghulu Mat Saleh lay
still until morning.

In a Malay village all are astir very shortly after daybreak. As soon as
it is light enough to see to walk the doors of the houses open one by
one, and the people of the village come forth singly huddled to the chin
in their _sarongs_ or bed coverlets. Each man makes his way down to the
river to perform his morning ablutions, or stands on the bank of the
stream, staring sleepily at nothing in particular, a black figure
silhouetted against the broad ruddiness of a Malayan dawn. Presently the
women of the village come out of the houses, in little knots of three or
four, with the children pattering at their heels. They carry clusters of
gourds in either hand, for it is their duty to fill them from the
running stream with the wa