With this sword of Damocles hanging over his head, and the object of his apprehension being daily brought nearer and yet nearer, Shafto was and looked abjectly miserable. FitzGerald rallied him boisterously on his glum appearance, and on being "off his feed."

"What on earth ails you?"

To his well-intended queries he invariably received the one brief unsatisfactory answer: "Nothing."

Roscoe, too, endeavoured to puzzle out the mystery. It was not the lack of money--Shafto was prompt in his payments; _his_ door was never haunted by bill-collectors, nor had he got into hot water in his office; both his horses were sound. What could it be?

In due course the _Blankshire_ was signalled and arrived, and the usual mob of people swarmed aboard to meet their friends. Among these, carrying a heavy heart, was Shafto; after all, he realised that he must do the right thing and go to receive his cousin; but, amazing to relate, there was no Miss Larcher among the pa.s.sengers! On inquiry he was presented to an excited lady, who had brought her all the way from Tilbury, filling the situation of lady nurse. Miss Larcher had not completed the voyage, but had landed at Colombo! On hearing of his relationship to her late employe, Mrs. Jones, a hot-tempered matron, fell figuratively tooth and nail upon defenceless Shafto. In a series of breathless sentences she a.s.sured him that "his cousin, Miss Larcher, was no better than an adventuress, and had behaved in the most dishonest and scandalous manner."

After a moment--to recover her breath--she went on in gasps:

"I took her on the recommendation of a mutual acquaintance, and at our interview she appeared quite all right and most anxious to please; but once on board ship, with her pa.s.sage paid, I soon discovered that she was not anxious to please _me_, but any and every unmarried man she could come across! Such a shameless and outrageous flirt I _never_ saw. As to her duties, she was absolutely _useless_; I don't believe she had ever washed or dressed a child in her life before she came to me; she did nothing but dress herself and sit about the deck with men, leaving me to do her work. When I spoke to her she simply laughed in my face; the children couldn't endure her and screamed whenever she came near them. So I was obliged to do nursemaid whilst she danced and amused herself--and all at my expense. She made no secret of the fact that she was on the look out for a husband; and she has gained her end--for she is married."

"Married!" repeated Shafto. The news was too good to be true.

"Well, at least they landed at Colombo with that intention," announced the lady sourly; "she and a coffee planter, a widower, with a touch of black blood. They were going up country to his estate, and she declared that she was about to have the time of her life--but I doubt it."

This piece of news was an unspeakable relief to Shafto. The hypocrite listened to the long list of his cousin's enormities with a downcast and apologetic air, whilst all the time he could have shouted for joy.

When at last he was permitted an opportunity of speaking, he a.s.sured the angry matron that he much deplored Miss Larcher's shortcomings.

His sympathy even took a practical form, for he generously offered to refund Mrs. Jones half of Miss Larcher's pa.s.sage money; this the lady vouchsafed to receive and subsequently always spoke of young Shafto as "a remarkably nice, gentlemanly fellow." Little did she suspect that the cheque so punctually lodged at her banker's was in the form of a heartfelt thank-offering--the price of a young man's peace!

CHAPTER XXIII

MYSTERY AND SUSPICION

One evening after dinner the four chums--unusual circ.u.mstance--were all present; MacNab, seated at the big round table, engaged in putting up a remarkably neat parcel, the others lounging at ease, smoking and talking.

"Bedad, I know the address of that!" drawled FitzGerald from his long cane chair, "St. Andrew's Lodge, Crieff, Perthshire, N.B.

Ahem--presents endear absents."

"N.B.," retorted MacNab, "_you_ don't send many!"

"Why, man alive, it's all I can do to keep myself in boots! And you're wrong about presents, for I did send my sister a ruby ring out of 'Top-Note's' winnings. Things are getting so bad with me financially"--here he struck a match and then went on--"that some day I'll be obliged to make a present of myself!"

Shafto, who was reading, looked up over the edge of his book and said:

"How do you know you won't be declined with thanks?"

"I will take an observation and make sure, me boy--I'm not a confounded fool. Talking of fools--what about your crazy expedition to-morrow? I say," addressing himself particularly to Roscoe and MacNab, "did you know that this fellow is going out tiger shooting? Tiger shooting, if you please! Tiger shooting is to be his way of spending the Sabbath; what do you say to _that_, my stiff-necked Presbyterian?"

"Tiger shooting where?" inquired Roscoe.

"Somewhere near Elephant Point, with Stafford of the Buffers," replied Shafto. "We have got leave, a pa.s.s and two trackers."

"You'll find it a pretty expensive business," remarked the canny Scotsman.

"Worse than that!" supplemented Roscoe. "There will be no bag, no tiger skin, claws, whiskers, or fat. As long as I've been in Rangoon--and that's some years--I've been hearing of this same tiger.

Dozens of parties have been out after him, with no success; he is still living on his reputation--just a myth and a fortune to the trappers.

Lower Burma is much too wet a district for the great cat tribe."

"But I am told that there are plenty of elephants and tigers in this district," argued Shafto. "And what about the tiger that was actually crawling on the PaG.o.da not so very long ago! Why, hundreds of people saw the brute; it was shot by a fellow called Bacon."

As this was a hard and unanswerable fact Roscoe was for the moment silenced. After a short pause he continued:

"All the same, I don't believe in the Elephant Point tiger; the other was no doubt a pious beast--who came from Chin Hills to make a pilgrimage."

"You'll have a fine, rough journey, me boy." said FitzGerald; "nasty deep swamps, terrible thorn thickets, gra.s.s ten foot high--it wouldn't be _my_ idea of pleasure."

"No," retorted Shafto, "tiger shooting and turkey-trotting are widely apart."

"But look here," exclaimed FitzGerald, as if struck by a thought and now sitting holt upright. "Mind you keep your eyes skinned and your ears p.r.i.c.ked when you are down there," and he threw his friend a significant glance; "you never know your luck, and you might happen on valuable _kubber_--and start some rare sort of game."

FitzGerald's warning was amply justified; the tiger-shooting expedition proved a much rougher business than the sportsmen had antic.i.p.ated.

Once they quitted the roads and foot-path, vegetation became rank and overpowering and in places impa.s.sable. Swampy ground, dense thorn thickets and elephant gra.s.s made progress enormously difficult--the jungle guards well its many secrets and is full of dangers to mankind.

It was a bright moonlight night when Shafto and his companions alighted at the selected area and tossed for posts. These were at a considerable distance apart, each in a tree, over a "tie-up"--which, on this occasion, happened to be a goat.

The hours dragged along slowly; Shafto, doubled up in a cramped position on a _machan_, felt painfully stiff and was obliged to deny himself the comfort of a cigarette. There was no sound beyond the bleat of the victim--unwittingly summoning its executioner, the buzz of myriads of insects, the ba.s.s booming of frogs and the stealthy, mysterious movements of night birds and small animals. Then by degrees the moon waned and the stars faded--though the sky was still light. It was about three o'clock in the morning and Shafto was beginning to agree with Roscoe respecting the tiger myth and to feel uncommonly drowsy, when his ear was struck by a far-away sound, entirely distinct from buzzing insects or booming frogs.

The spot which had been thoughtfully selected by the trapper, was within a few hundred yards of a small cove, chosen as an inviting place for the tiger to come and slake his thirst. The distant sound came from this direction and, by degrees, a faint but definite pulsation grew more audible and distinct, and finally resolved itself, into the steady throbbing of a motor-launch. It was approaching.

Then from the back of Shafto's mind he dragged out a memory of FitzGerald's mention of a broken-down petrol boat. Here was probably the very one--by no means a derelict; on the contrary, a fast traveller. For a moment he was startled, then promptly made up his mind. This was a chance, perhaps, to secure some really valuable _kubber_. More than once he had heard it rumoured that, in these distant creeks and bays, some of the smugglers had discharged their valuable cargo. Well, if the cargo was now about to be landed, here was his opportunity! As the bleating of the goat would undoubtedly give him away, he must get rid of the animal immediately, so he quickly shinned down the tree and commanded the trapper to remove it.

"Tiger not coming to-night," he explained to the astonished Burman, who rejoined:

"Tiger coming soon, soon, now; after the waning of the moon."

"Oh well, never mind," said Shafto impatiently, "you take away the goat. Look sharp--take him quickly, quickly and _keep_ him."

This was an extraordinary _thakin_, who, at the very climax of the tiger hour, climbed out of the _machan_ and liberated the bait!

Certainly these English folk were mad.

"You go towards the camp," he ordered, "and take my gun."

The Burman, still completely bewildered, obeyed; he could not understand the situation, but he felt bound to do what he was told, and presently he disappeared, moving with obvious reluctance, leading the goat and carrying gun and cartridges. His employer did not immediately follow, but remained for a considerable time motionless--listening.

The pulsation had almost ceased--evidently the motor-boat had arrived at her destination, which was unfortunately not in his immediate vicinity. He crept stealthily along in the direction of the possible anchorage, fighting his way through roots and undergrowth; it was all of no use--a barrier of mora.s.s and elephant gra.s.s proved absolutely impa.s.sable, so he turned back towards his camp, pausing now and then to listen. He could make out voices--one in an authoritative key summoning "Mung Li." Well, he had at least discovered something definite--he was in the vicinity of smugglers. In a short time he discovered something else; through a breach in the undergrowth he caught a glimpse of a Burman leading a stout, grey pony carrying a European saddle and--unless his eyes entirely deceived him--the animal was Krauss's well-known weight carrier, "Dacoit."

Two evenings later, at the Gymkhana Club, Krauss lounged up to Shafto, who happened to be looking on at a billiard match. Taking a cigar out of his mouth he astonished him by saying:

"Well, so you had no luck after that tiger down the river!"

This was taking the bull by the horns indeed. "No," replied Shafto, "but Stafford saw him and got a shot. He is there all right."

"Perhaps you will have another try?" suggested Krauss.