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Updated: May 20, 2025
I wanted something from my tent, and sent Meeanh, my Indian chaukidar, to fetch it. He was going off in the dark to do so, when I called him back and told him to take a lantern for fear of snakes. This he did, and as soon as he got to the door of the tent, which was only a dozen yards off, he called out frantically, "Are, Sahib, burra sanp hai!" "Where?" I shouted.
As we approached the shed, the leopard made a frantic spring in our direction as far as the chain would allow him, and this so frightened the chaukidar that he fled in terror, leaving me in utter darkness. The night was as black as had been the previous one, and I could see absolutely nothing; but I knew the general direction in which to fire and accordingly emptied my magazine at the beast.
The ever-faithful Mahina, my "boy" Roshan Khan, my honest chaukidar, Meeanh, and a few other coolies who had been a long time with me, accompanied me to the coast, where they bade me a sorrowful farewell and left for India the day before I sailed on my homeward journey. During the early part of last year I revisited the scene of my former labours and adventures on a shooting trip.
Nalini was about to return home too, when the Chaukidar came in and told him that he had reported Siráji's death to the Sub-Inspector of police, who had ordered him not to permit the corpse to be touched by any one until his arrival. About three o'clock on the same day Nalini heard that the police had come to investigate the cause of Siráji's death.
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