Ken!" Sawyer interposed quickly. "Why, the bait is set, the machin is built and the tonga will be around for us tonight after tiffin. Never! That's a bit too thick, old thing. No sir! the hunt goes on as per schedule—and may we bag the brace of them! Leopards! Big ones, too, from the size of their pugs—I measured them myself! I've got to have a leopard hide for the den; don't I, unk?" Sawyer turned to his uncle for support. The elder Ellison nodded dourly.
"Watch your step, then," Kensington said resignedly. "I'll go, of course," he added quickly.
"Good!" Major Ellison snapped. His grim face expanded with satisfaction. "That's all poppycock, Ken. I'll bet that old beggar has forgotten all about his momentary anger before this. . . . I hope we bag a big 'un. If we should shoot a pair of them—well, that will be a tale co tell at the club!"
He touched his horse lightly with his crop and the trio made their way swiftly to the Kensington bungalow.
Dinner was over. In the black night
the tonga stopped abruptly. The
three hunters dismounted with alacrity,
saw to their guns, inspected the mutilated
bodies of the goats that the two leopards
had slain the night before and that had
been left carefully untouched at Kensington's
orders. Swiftly they climbed up to
the machin, the hunter's platform, in the
wild fig tree that overlooked the clearing,
hurriedly built that very day by Kensington's
numerous native servants.
Far up the hill above them the light of Mount Abu twinkled, vying with the fat tropical stars and the flitting, twinkling fireflies. Ghostly whisperings and furtive rustlings filled the air as the jungle awoke from its day-dreaming for the serious business of the night.
Sawyer Ellison slapped at the mosquitos that hovered about them in swarms, biting every exposed place. He stifled a groan as he rubbed cramped aching leg muscles. Fervently he wished that he dared to move, to stretch, to turn from that intolerable position, yet mindful that his companions suffered similarly, and stoically forbore to relieve themselves lest they scare away any lurking game.
The moon rose, flooding the opening with its silver. The minutes passed in maddening slowness. A twig snapped sharply. The three in the machin tensed to instant watchfulness.
From the dense, shadowy jungle stole a sleek spotted body. Sawyer's eyes widened. A leopard! He eyed its lithe, wicked grace, its huge bulk—a real trophy—one to be proud of—if he could manage to secure it. Slowly his rifle raised.
At that instant the leopard's mate crept into view on his right, another splendid cat, almost the equal of the other. The female leaped playfully at her mate; the two played like enormous cats, though their playful slaps at each other would have broken bones for any of the hunters had they been there on the ground with the two. Reluctantly the two Ellisons held their fire for a surer shot. The leopards ceased their playful antics and crept swiftly toward the mutilated carcasses of the goats.
At almost the same instant Ellison's guns roared. The female leopard leaped high, clawing and growling in her death agonies, tearing up the tough jungle grasses in flying shards. The other beast dropped like a stone.
Incredulously Kensington eyed his silent weapon. Sheepishly he slipped off the safety catch that had prevented an echoing, answering roar when his nervous finger had pressed the trigger.
"Buck fever!" Sawyer jeered softly as he watched in amusement. "After all
