The Battery and the Boiler, Robert Michael Ballantyne [best book club books .TXT] 📗

fell cautiously in rear.

Bang! bang! went Slagg's gun.

"Oh!" he cried, conscience-stricken; "there, if I haven't done it again!"

"Done it! av coorse ye have!" cried Flinn, picking up an enormous bird; "it cudn't have bin nater done by a sportin' lord."

"Then it ain't a tame one?" asked Slagg eagerly.

"No more a tame wan than yoursilf, an' the best of aitin' too," said. Flinn.

Jim Slagg went on quietly loading his gun, and did not think it necessary to explain that he had supposed the birds to be tame turkeys, that his piece had a second time gone off by accident, and that he had taken no aim at all!

After that, however, he managed to subdue his feelings a little, and accidentally bagged a few more birds of strange form and beautiful plumage, by the simple process of shutting his eyes and firing into the middle of flocks, to the immense satisfaction of Flinn, who applauded all his successes and explained away all his failures in the most amiable manner.

If the frequent expanding of the mouth from ear to ear, the exposure of white teeth and red gums, and the shutting up of glittering eyes, indicated enjoyment, the attenuated boy must have been in a blissful condition that day.

"Why don't ye shoot yerself, Mister Flinn?" asked Slagg on one occasion while reloading.

"Bekaise it shuits me better to look on," answered the self-denying man. "You see, I'm used to it; besides, I'm a marciful man, and don't care to shoot only for divarshion."

"What's that?" cried Slagg, suddenly pointing his gun straight upwards at two brilliant black eyes which were gazing straight down at him.

"Howld on--och! don't--"

Flinn thrust the gun aside, but he was too late to prevent the explosion, which was followed by a lamentable cry, as a huge monkey fell into Slagg's arms, knocked him over with the shock, and bounded off his breast into its native woods, shrieking.

"Arrah! he's niver a bit the worse," cried Flinn, laughing, in spite of his native politeness, "it was the fright knocked him off the branch. If you'd only given him wan shot he might have stud it, but two was too much for him. But plaise, Mister Slagg, don't fire at monkeys again. I niver do it mesilf, an' can't stand by to see it. It's so like murther, an' the only wan I iver shot in me life was so like me own owld gran'mother that I've niver quite got over it."

Slagg willingly promised never again to fire at monkeys, and they proceeded on their way.

They had not gone far, when another whirring of wings was heard, but this time the noise was greater than on other occasions.

"What is it?" asked Slagg eagerly, preparing for action.

"Sure it's a pay-cock," said Flinn.

"A what-cock?" asked Slagg, who afterwards described the noise to be like the flapping of a mainsail.

"A pay-cock. Splendid aitin'. Fire, avic!"

"What! fire at _that_?" cried Slagg, as a creature of enormous size and gorgeous plumage rose above the bushes. "Ye must be jokin'. I _couldn't_ fire at that."

"Faix, an' ye naidn't fire at it _now_," returned Flinn with a quiet smile, "for it's a mile out o' range by this time. Better luck--och! if there isn't another. Now, thin, don't be in a hurry. Be aisy. Whatever ye do, be aisy."

While he spoke another huge bird appeared, and as Slagg beheld its size and spreading wings and tail, he took aim with the feelings of a cold-blooded murderer. That is to say, he shut both eyes and pulled both triggers. This double action had become a confirmed habit by that time, and Flinn commended it on the principle that there was "nothin' like makin' cocksure of everything!"

Re-opening his eyes and lowering his gun, Slagg beheld the peacock sailing away in the far distance.

"Sure ye've missed it, but after all it's a most awkward bird to hit-- specially when ye don't pint the gun quite straight. An' the tail, too, is apt to throw even a crack-shot out--so it is. Niver mind; there's plenty more where that wan came from."

Thus encouraged, our sportsman reloaded and continued his progress.

It is said that fortune favours the brave, and on that occasion the proverb was verified. There can be no question that our friend Jim Slagg was brave. All Irishmen are courageous, therefore it is equally certain that Flinn was brave, and the attenuated black could not have been otherwise than brave, else he would not have continued to enjoy himself in the dangerous neighbourhood of Slagg's gun. As a consequence, therefore, fortune did favour the sportsmen that day, for it brought them unexpectedly into the presence of the king of India's forests--a royal Bengal tiger--tawny skin, round face, glaring eyes, and black stripes complete from nose to tail!

There was no doubt in Flinn's mind about it, as his actions proved, but there were considerable doubts in Slagg's mind, as was evinced by his immediate petrifaction--not with fear, of course, but with something or other remarkably similar.

Slagg chanced to be walking in advance at the time, making his way with some trouble through a rather dense bit of jungle. He had by that time recovered his self-possession so much that he was able to let his mind wander to other subjects besides sport.

At the moment when the _rencontre_ occurred he chanced to be wandering in spirit among the groves of Pirate Island. On turning sharp round a bend in the track, he found himself face to face with the tiger, which crouched instantly for a spring. As we have said, the sportsman was instantly petrified. He could not believe his eyes! He must have believed something, however, else he would not have gazed with such dreadful intensity. Yes, there, a few feet before him, crouched the tenant of the menagerie, without the cage--the creature of picture story-books endued with life!

Had Slagg's life depended on his putting his gun to his shoulder he would have lost it, for he could not move. His fingers, however, were gifted with independent action. They gave a spasmodic jerk, and both barrels, chancing to be levelled correctly, sent their charges full into the tiger's face.

Small shot may tickle a tiger but it cannot kill. With a roar like thunder the brute sprang on its audacious enemy. Fortunately Slagg made an _in_voluntary step to the rear at the moment, and fell on his back, so that the animal, half-blinded by shot and smoke, went over him, and alighted almost at the feet of Flinn.

That worthy was equal to the occasion. At the sound of his friend's double shot he had seized the large rifle and leaped forward in time to meet the baffled tiger. Quick as light his practised hand discharged the heavy bullet, which, passing over the animal's head, went into its spine near the haunches, so that when it tried a second spring its hind legs refused their office, and it rolled over fuming and struggling in an agony of pain and rage.

Flinn ran a few paces backward so as to reload in comparative safety, while Slagg followed his example, but in desperate haste. Before he had half charged the first barrel, a second shot from the heavy rifle laid the royal monster dead on the ground.

"Well done!" cried Flinn, seizing his friend's hand and wringing it. "It's Nimrod you are, no less. I niver saw a purtier shot. An', faix, it's not every man that kills a tiger his first day out."

"But I _didn't_ kill it," said Slagg modestly.

"Sure but ye drew first blood, me boy, so the tiger's yours, an' I wish you joy. Come, we'll go home now an' git help to fetch the carcass. Won't they open their two eyes aich of them whin they see it! Here, ye black spalpeen, take the rifle an' give me the gun."

In a few minutes the fortunate hunters were wending their way rapidly homeward, and that night the whole party, while enjoying their supper, feasted their eyes on the magnificent form of the royal Bengal tiger as it lay on the verandah, in front of the electricians' bungalow.


CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.


BEGINS WITH A DISAPPOINTMENT, CONTINUES WITH A GREAT RECEPTION, AND ENDS WITH A SERIES OF SURPRISES.

At the breakfast-table next morning a telegram was handed to Redpath. There was nothing unusual in this. On the contrary, it seemed peculiarly natural that telegrams should be frequent visitors at the house of a telegraphist, but it was not so natural that Redpath should first look at the missive with surprise, and then toss it across the table to Sam.

"It is for you, Mr Shipton."

"For me? Impossible! I am supposed to be dead at home," exclaimed Sam, tearing it open. "Oh, it's from Frank Hedley, and--well, he _has_ been successful after all! Listen, Robin. Excuse me, Mrs Redpath. May I read it aloud?"

"By all means," answered the pretty little woman, who would probably have answered the same if he had asked leave to go to bed in his boots.

"`Your affair settled'"--continued Sam, reading.

"`Great Eastern starts almost immediately. Come without delay.'"

"How provoking!" exclaimed the pretty little woman. "I had counted on having you a fortnight at least."

"And I had counted on showing you some capital sport in our jungles, where we have all sorts of large game. But of course you cannot do otherwise than obey the summons at once."

"Of course not," said Sam and Robin together.

Flinn left the room and entered the servants' quarters with something like a groan.

"Sure it's bad luck has followed me iver since I left owld Ireland."

"What's wrong with you?" asked Slagg, looking up from the slice of peacock breast with which he was regaling himself.

"The matter? Och, it's bad luck's the matter. Hasn't our frindship only just begood, an' isn't it goin' to be cut short all of a suddint, niver more to be renewed?"

In pathetic tones, and with many Hibernian comments, the poor man communicated the news brought by the telegram. But regrets were of no avail; the orders were peremptory; the chance of returning to England in such circumstances too good to be lightly thrown away; so that same forenoon saw the whole party, with the skin of the royal tiger, on their way back to the city of Bombay.

It is easier to imagine than to describe the state of mind into which they were thrown when, on returning to their hotel, they discovered the perfidy of Stumps. Fortunately, they had enough of money left to discharge the hotel bill, and redeem their property.

"You're quite sure of the name of the vessel he sailed in?" asked Sam of the waiter who had so cleverly obtained, and so cautiously retained, his information as to the proceedings of Stumps.

"Quite sure, sir," replied the waiter. "The ship's name was Fairy Queen, bound for the port of London, and the thief--the gen'lem'n, I mean--shipped in the name of James Gibson."

Having received the "consideration" which he had anticipated, and had afterwards given up as lost, the waiter retired, and Sam, with his friends, went to