The Young Stagers/The Virtuous Tiger
VII.
THE VIRTUOUS TIGER.
"What does 'a stitch in time saves nine' mean, Buster?" asked Boodle, as her guide, philosopher, and friend entered the Club in search of tea ere bearing his modest part in a Literary session of the same. "Daddy said it about his saddle."
"Well, the mother of eight once sewed—no, that's a different story. It's like this," was the reply. "There were once nine Virtuous Children, like you and the Vice, y'know, and they were being pursued by an Abominable Policeman. . . ."
"Whaffor?" inquired the Vice.
"Well, it is their nature to. It's a Law. Abominable Policemen do it to fulfil the law of their being—and Virtuous Children get pursued to fulfil the law of their not being—not being there when the Abominable Policeman arrives, you know. Do you understand?"
"No," said the Vice.
"Nor do I," replied Buster, "but this will make it as plain as yourself, Sir. (No offence, of course.) The nine Virtuous Children, secure in the knowledge of their unimpeachable and unassailable Virtue, fled with such dispatch that the pursuing and Abominable Policeman got the Stitch. D'you see? He got the stitch in Time and it saved the Nine."
"Good Tosh," commended the President.
Buster bowed his thanks of the appreciation of his effort.
"I know a lot about Virtue," he admitted. "It's like Beauty, you know, 'Beauty is in the eye of the beholder'."
"Don't be vain, Buster," adjured the President. "What do men want with beautiful eyes? 'Sides, yours are very or'nary."
Buster wept. "Misunderstood!" he wailed. Mis-understood!"
"Who was she?" inquired the Vice.
Buster positively yelped in his anguish.
"You wrong me, Gentlemen," he said, with quiet dignity. "Beauty does not exist until it is seen. Same with Virtue. Virtue is in the mind of the appreciator. I trust I make myself clear. I once knew a Virtuous Tiger."
The yawn which was frankly distending the mouth of the Vice was nipped in the bud, if yawns do bud, or, to express the fact better, was stifled untimely. Tigers are tigers. Man-eaters he knew, and tigresses he knew, but what was this? Did it gambol friskily around the feet of its owner, a small boy; sleep at night beside his bed, guarding him from harm; give him rides upon its back, and sustain many and varied rôles in play-acting?
"What ith a wirtuouth tiger?" he inquired.
"A tiger Redolent of Virtue," was the reply. "A good tiger. A really nice-minded tiger. A gentlemanly, quiet, steady, reliable tiger. A tiger you could trust with the joint. Quiet to ride or drive. No vice. Ridden by a lady—but no smile on the face of the tiger."
"A darling pet tiger," supplemented the President.
"Tell uth all about it, pleathe Buthter," besought the Vice.
"It is a sad tale," said the Subaltern. "It is like 'Gelert,' 'The Arab's Farewell to his Steed,' 'The Falcon of Ser Federigo,' 'Ginevra,' and that sort of thing. Poignant."
"Lucy Gray," murmured the President.
"Precisely. In fact that was the Virtuous Tiger's name among the Simple Villagers. Exactly.
"I met a little cottage loaf,
Er—. . ."
"No—that's 'We are Seven,' and it wasn't a cottage loafer. Cottage girl,' corrected the President.
"Quite so. My mistake. But some are, you know. 'Specially in villages like London. Let's see. Lucy Gray. . . . Wasn't it she who dwelt in beauty side by side, or beside the cottage door—while by her sported on the green her giddy grandpa Might-have-been."
"No, Buster, it was not. But what about the Virtuous Tiger? Never mind the other Lucy now."
"Buck up, Buthter, pleathe," adjured the Vice.
"Well, gentlemen, the Virtuous Lucy, a tiger of blameless life, lived and moved and had his being, or his pitch, in some hills near a village called Soni, far far away from here, and was greatly loved and respected by all the Simple Villagers of those parts. It is said that such people are never grateful, but the Simple Villagers of Soni were, for I myself saw them at it.
"But why were they grateful to a tiger?" asked the President.
"Because he was their Father and Mother and Protector of the Poor. He killed a black-buck or some other deer, not to mention the porkish wild pig, every night of his life—and the saving in young crops was more than you'd believe. I forget exactly how many tons of jowri and bajri and similar interestin' things one healthy deer eats in the course of a stilly night—but it would surprise you. 'Normous quantity. The headman alone reckoned that Lucy was worth a good Sandown tip to him in February; a winner in the Sandown Military Meeting in March; and in April alone, as good as a triple event in the Newmarket Two Thousand Guineas, the Epsom Spring meeting and the Grand National. Fact! In May that tiger was worth a win and a place in the Kempton Jubilee Stakes; and as for June,—why in June he wouldn't have parted with that tiger for a dead cert for the Derby, Oaks, and Ascot. He wouldn't—not he. In July that beast was worth a Good Thing in the Eclipse Stakes and at Goodwood. When September came round, Lucy was worth a well-backed outsider in the St. Leger, while as for October,—in that month the kind animal was as good as top-hole luck at Gatwick, and a genuine straight-from-the-stable for the Caesarewitch and the Cambridgeshire Stakes. Believe me or believe me not. And during the rest of the year, that headman would sooner have lost his wife than Lucy Gray. A lot sooner. . . . Same with all the other villagers. They simply loved the Virtuous Lucy and hoped he might live for ever. He really was worth thousands of rupees a year to the Simple Villagers of Soni."
"Didn't he never eat none of them?" inquired the Vice. "Not even the fat little boys?"
"Now, my dear Vice," was the slightly pained reply, "what decent tiger would eat Simple Villager while he could get venison? Would you yourself? . . . No, he never dreamt of interfering with them in any way. It was a beautiful example of lovely Nature's pretty way of keeping—what is it?—the Balance of Trade or the Survival of the Fattest or something—the Simple Villagers tilled the soil, the soil yielded crops, the crops attracted the deer, and the tiger lived on them. Seems as though the deer were 'Also Rans,' rather, don't it? Anyhow, that was the happy state of affairs in sweet Soni, loveliest village of the plain, when a Traveller came to the Travellers' Bungalow—and nearly spoilt the show. He was one of those wretched beasts who always want to put things right before they're wrong—what's called a Member of Parliament in scientific language. And even among Members of Parliament, he was the limit, the ultimate outside edge. Believe me, he was a Rooter. . . . And for what fell purpose do you suppose he had come to sweet Soni, auburnest village of the Plains? He had come to murder Lucy, the Virtuous Lucy, friend and patron of the sons of Soni. . . .
'The Fathers of the City had met within their Hall
The men whom good King George had charged to watch the tower and wall'—
In other words, the village panchayet had assembled under the banyan to see about it.
"‘Nay, brother,' quoth the shikari (whom the Travelling M.P. had brought with him) to the headman of Soni. 'Mad, he is not, but very, very foolish, a babe at the hunting and most wondrous ignorant. There is indeed but one thing to equal his great ignorance and that is his great admiration for his own knowledge and wisdom. Surely there can be no shikar in his own country. . . . But from me he will learn much, provided his folly anger not the gods. . . .'
"‘But he must not slay our virtuous tiger in the process of learning,' interrupted the headman, and he clucked the cluck of uttermost negation.
"‘He will pay well,' said the shikari.
"‘Will he pay the equivalent of all the damage that pig, nilghai, sambur, black-buck, chinkara and other beasts will do to the growing crops night after night and year after year, throughout all the village cultivation?' answered the headman. 'Will he pay the value of the goats, sheep, cows, buffaloes, children, and women that will be killed if our virtuous tiger's place be taken by some old toothless scoundrel of a man-eater, who will not hunt for himself but will batten upon our flocks and herds and upon us? Not he! . . .'
"And again the headman clucked.
"But the shikari was not a villager of Soni and cared nothing for its fate. He was out for fame and fortune, and the man who gets hold of a Travelling M.P. and gains not both, does not deserve either. Many rupees and much honour (among Sahibs) would be his if he guided the feet of so foolish and ignorant an employer to the slaying of a fine tiger. His position was a sad one. It appeared that he must either forego his hopes of gold and honour or find that something most finally fatal had been put in his supper by the hospitable villagers of Soni. He could see no way out of the difficulty, but, being an Indian and a wily shikari, he could see one round it. The foolish Wandering Sahib should see the Virtuous Tiger and have a run for his money, or rather the shikari's money, but shoot it, he should not. In fact, a miracle should be worked, for the foolish Sahib should depart from Soni bearing a tiger's skin, the Virtuous Tiger should remain in Soni wearing a tiger's skin, the good shikari would have rupees and honour, and the villagers of Soni much baksheesh and their Loving Lucy. Excellent—but what a lot of trouble caused by a little virtue! A hard case. Here was a Sahib desperately anxious to slay a tiger. Here was an admirable shikari to whom he had made known his desire—and his preparedness to pay handsomely in the event of success. Here was a tiger to be shot, at any time, by anybody who chose to sit upon a rock overlooking the well-worn tiger-path from the cave, and await him at early morn or dewy eve. What a conjunction!—and to be ruined by Virtue.
"‘Something must be done,' he remarked to the headman. 'You would not have him and his rupees depart forthwith.'
"‘Anything you please, brother,' was the reply, 'provided no harm cometh to our striped Rajah of the nullah.'
"‘I must think. His tiger's skin is worth a hundred rupees to me, over and above pay and commission on bandobast,' said the shikari.
"‘Our Lord, the tiger, is worth a hundred rupees to every soul in this village—and we be many,' was the firm reply.
"‘But there is no reason why the Sahib should not see our Protector's tracks for a few days and be detained in our midst until he grow weary,' he added thoughtfully.
"‘Nor why he should not see the tiger itself, thereafter—when he begins to weary of seeing only its pugs,' suggested the shikari.
"‘None,' agreed the headman, 'provided he have not his gun with him at the time.'
"‘On my head be it,' answered the shikari. . . .
•••••
"The shikari thought for days. So did the headman. So did the bannia (whom the shikari sought and who picked his brains in five minutes). So did the police patel—who was a good man at such little games. So did the good priest, who was a better one. So did the kulkarni. So did the schoolmaster, a learned man on nine rupees a month, and no bad hand himself at little games. So did the civil patel. So did all the adult male villagers and all the children. For it was an interesting and piquant situation—a Virtuous Tiger who must not be molested and a Travelling M.P. who must molest one or depart unmulct, with buttoned pockets. One thing was certain. Lucy must not bleed. Another thing was equally certain, the Traveller must be bled. ..."
"When's the tiger hunt going to begin, pleathe, Buthter?" interrupted the Vice.
"Well, my son, to make a short story long—the next time the Simple Villagers of Soni went up to Lucy's cave with sackbut, harp and psaltery, praise and oblations and the carcase of a goat that had otherwise outlived its days of usefulness, as was their wont at the new moon—they didn't. The shikari just took the goat up without any tamasha whatever, and presently after took the good M.P. for a quiet evening stroll to the very spot where Lucy, full of contentment and goat, sat washing her face beside her cottage door. For the first time in his life the travelling M.P.'s tongue failed him, and he stood as though turned to stone. Then, when Lucy sat up, yawned, hiccoughed, and put her paw up to her mouth as who should say 'Excuse me,' he turned and fled for his life, and then said it was for his gun. . . .
"There was dirty work at the cross-roads that night.
"The Simple Villagers built a machan overlooking the path from Lucy's cave, and, as soon as Lucy was safely off for her night's stroll, the shikari took the good M.P. to sit upon it and consort with mosquitoes, while he watched for the horrible Scourge. Nearly all night he sat, and had just gone to sleep when the shikari, who was sitting behind him, heard the sounds he had been waiting for. A minute later, he saw what he had been watching for and gently shook his sleeping employer.
"‘Look, ' he whispered and pointed. The good Traveller rubbed his eyes and looked. There, sure enough, beneath a tree a few yards away, he could just make out, In the dim starlight, a huge striped animal! Raising his Express rifle to his shoulder, he shut both eyes and fired both barrels. There was a terrible roar, or bellow, or bleat, and the sound of an animal falling and struggling on the ground. A moment later, there was a sound of more than one animal struggling on the ground, for the good M.P., in his excitement, had leant too far over the edge of the machan and, perhaps helped a little by the wily shikari, had come down without using the ladder. Likewise the shikari, who with a cry of 'Run Sahib; run,' landed on the gentleman's stomach in a manner which in no way helped. Knowing the unwisdom of dallying around among wounded tigers (and Heaven alone knew how many there were by now), the Traveller took the tip as quickly as he could, and did his record travel for the dâk-bungalow, guided by his faithful follower—who followed in front of course. After a stiff brandy and soda, the good gentleman sat him down to wait for dawn, by which time he had written a full account for the Crumpington Courier of his slaughter of the far-famed, terrible man-eater of Soni.
"Meanwhile the Simple Villagers had got busy, and by the time the M.P. cautiously returned to the scene of his prowess, there was nothing to see but gallons of blood upon the trampled grass. But when Lucy came home with a headache after a poor night, she was gratified to find a calf, with two bullet holes in its tummy, neatly laid beside her cottage door. Equally gratified the next day was the good M.P. to find a fine blood-stained tiger-skin pegged out before his cottage door when he returned from a day's tramp with one of the search parties that had scoured the district in pursuit of the wounded monster.
"Great were the rejoicings and the festivities, and every one was happy. The Traveller, the shikari, the villagers, the bannia's brother who had sold him the tiger-skin, and Lucy, the beloved Virtuous Tiger of the sweet village of the plains."
"Good Tosh," commented the President. "Let's play Shipwrecked Sailors on a Raft."