of carefully-kept and
trim tea bushes. To-day acres upon acres of tea are grown in Cachar;
and the inland steamers, which ply all through the rainy season up
and down the wide-rolling stream of the river Barak, bring down for
export millions of pounds of tea for the "cheering cup".

Cachar is rich in forests, and tigers and other wild animals are there
in plenty. During the monsoon the jungle animals retreat to the higher
levels of the forest-clad hills. But when the rains abate they begin
to gradually descend; and when the great "hoars" or fenlands dry up
at the approach of the cold season, numerous tigers take up their
winter haunts in the patches of jungle, which grow here and there in
the marsh lands, and in the forests which often surround or separate
the tea gardens.

It was cold-weather time about forty years ago, and four planters
sat talking after dinner in the Manager's bungalow on a tea garden
in Cachar. We will call them M., B., C. and H.

The bungalow, like many bungalows in tea districts, stood on a
high hill, the steep sides of which had been terraced and planted
with tea. On adjacent but lower hills stood the factory and coolie
lines. Everything was quiet and lay wrapped in a heavy fog.

In the verandah near the steps sat the bungalow chowkidar
(watchman). The charity of the Tea Company had provided him and his
fellow-coolies with blankets. And he wore his in the usual pachim
(North-West Provinces) style: one end of the blanket is pleated and
tied closely with a piece of string, the short part above the cord
forming a tuft. The wearer pulls the pleated end of the blanket over
his head, the tuft resting on his crown. The sides of the blanket are
drawn round the body, and thus the blanket is made to form both a hood
and a cloak, in which the wearer hugs himself against the inclemency
of the weather.

The chowkidar sat on his mat huddled up in his blanket, droning one
of the time-honoured bhajans (hymns) of India.

Presently he disappeared and, next, piercing yells rent the mist-laden
atmosphere. The four Sahebs were in the verandah in a trice, and soon
discovered the chowkidar returning to the verandah, visibly shaken
and without his blanket.

"What is the matter, and who shouted?" asked the Manager.

"Saheb," the chowkidar replied in a quavering voice "a tiger sprang
on me and caught the knot of my blanket."

"Here!" interrupted the four Englishmen incredulously.

"Yes, Huzoor (Your Honour),