ature presents, with his lovely coat gleaming in the
hot sun. But the din is drawing near. Down goes the massive head;
wide, cruel lips draw back, and four long primary fangs are bared in a
gruff roar. Then he dashes forward for cover. But too late; I have
drawn a bead on his rippling shoulder and fired.

He is down, fighting and biting at he knows not what; and his roars
rise high above the wild pandemonium of the beaters.

But my shot has not killed. I give the alarm, and we put scouts up
trees to direct the ticklish pursuit along the bloody trail. We drive
herds of buffaloes into the long grass and brush to drive out the
wounded tiger. Our general himself takes charge, with few words and
sure tactics.

"We've got his mate," he says grimly. "I put her on a pad-elephant and
sent her back to camp."

It is growing dark. I hear the sambur-stag belling from the
mountain-side, and the monotonous call of the coel, or Indian cuckoo.
Afar a peacock calls from a ruined tomb, and through all the jungle
concert runs the continuous screech of the cicada.

A loud signal from a treed scout suddenly tells us my tiger is
located. Relentlessly, foot by foot, the man-eater is tracked. We are
guided always by the scouts in the trees; for that terrible
bamboo-like grass swallows even elephants, swaying noisily to their
moving bulk. At length we emerge in a little clearing; and even as we
glance around, the stalks part harshly, and the tiger leaps forth at
an unarmed beater, burying fangs in a soundless throat. An awful
sight!

A dozen rifles roar too late to save the poor wretch. We pick up
victim and tiger and heave them on a pad-elephant. And then back to
camp.

[Illustration]

THE RADICAL JUDGE

BY ANITA FITCH

ILLUSTRATIONS BY ARTHUR G. DOVE

Often when, arm in arm with black Double-headed Pete, the Radical
Judge went by the paling fence, Hope Carolina said to herself:

"W'en he comes all lonely, jus' by his own self, I'll frow a rock at
him. Yes, sholy!"

Unconscious of the danger that lurked in future ambush, the great
politician would pass on, the rear view of his little stiff, quickly
stepping figure showing a high silk hat and the parted tails of a
broadcloth coat, which in front buttoned importantly at the waist.
Dressed with exactly the same splendor, even to the waist-buttoning of
the coat, the huge negro towered a full head taller than his hated,
feared, and brilliant intimate.

In that secret, my