"*The shikari did it," he bleated, as he dodged Fido's rushes.
"‘Yes. I fully expected you'd put the blame on the poor ignorant native and try and get him into trouble, to save your own skin—but it won't do, Sir. Let me have your name and address at once. . . .' You should have heard him! Well—at last the Collector softened a little, and then, much against his will, agreed to let the Traveller off—provided he shot the Dreadful Scourge. And he was to tie up a calf one day, a goat the next, and a dog the next—and so on to give them off-days and rests. (Fish-eating muggers are equally alarmed by lowings, bleatings, and barkings, you know.)"
"And he never shot the Virtuous Mugger?" asked Boodle.
"He hasn't yet," replied Buster. "He's still trying."
"When did he make the bargain with the Collector?" asked the delighted President.
"About seven years ago," was the truthful or untruthful reply.
