er the fusillade
which greeted him; he leapt so desperately from one side to the other
as to appear for a few moments almost ubiquitous, while at every
discharge the frantic natives screamed "_Lugga! lugga!_" without
in the least knowing whether he _was_ hit (_lugga_) or not, till
presently, when I supposed he must have received at least forty shots
in his body, he fell back from a desperate attempt to scale the back
of the rajah's elephant, and lay quite still.

[Illustration: BRAHMANS OF BENGAL.]

"I thought that last shot of mine would finish him," said one of
the English civil officials as we all crowded around the magnificent
beast.

"Whether it did or not, I distinctly saw him cringe at _my_ shot,"
hotly said another. "There's always a peculiar look a tiger has when
he gets his death-wound: it's unmistakable when you once know it."

"And I'll engage to eat him," interjected a third, "if I didn't blow
off the whole side of his face with my smooth-bore when he stuck his
muzzle up into my howdah."

"Gentlemen," said our leader, a cool and model old hunter, "the
shortest way to settle who is the owner of this tiger-skin is to
examine the perforations in it."

Which we all accordingly fell to doing.

"B----, I'm afraid you've a heavy meal ahead of you: his muzzle is as
guiltless of harm as a baby's," said one of the claimants.

"Well," retorted B----, "but I don't see any sign of that big bore of
yours, either."

"By Jove!" said the leader in some astonishment as our search
proceeded unsuccessfully, "has _anybody_ hit him? Maybe he died of
fright."

At this moment Bhima Gandharva calmly advanced, lifted up the great
fore leg of the tiger and showed us a small blue hole just underneath
it: at the same time he felt along the tiger's skin on the opposite
side to the hole, rolled the bullet about under the cuticle where
it had lodged after passing through the animal, and deftly making an
incision with his knife drew it forth betwixt his thumb and finger. He
handed it to the gentleman whose guests we were, and to whom the
rifle belonged which had been placed in our howdah, and then modestly
withdrew from the circle.

"There isn't another rifle in camp that carries so small a bullet,"
said our host, holding up the ball, "and there can't be the least
doubt that the Hindu is the man who killed him."

Not another bullet-hole was to be found.

"When _did_ you do it?" I asked of Bhima. "I knew not that you had