It was Mrs. Packletide’s pleasure and intention that she should

shoot a tiger. Not that the lust to kill had suddenly descended on

her, or that she felt that she would leave India safer and more

wholesome than she had found it, with one fraction less of wild

beast per million of inhabitants. The compelling motive for her sudden

deviation towards the footsteps of Nimrod was the fact that

Loona Bimberton had recently been carried eleven miles in an

aeroplane by an Algerian aviator, and talked of nothing else; only a

personally procured tiger-skin and a heavy harvest of Press photographs

could successfully counter that sort of thing. Mrs. Packletide

had already arranged in her mind the lunch she would give at her

house in Curzon Street, ostensibly in Loona Bimberton’s honour,

with a tiger-skin rug occupying most of the foreground and all of

the conversation. She had also already designed in her mind the

tiger-claw broach that she was going to give Loona Bimberton on

her next birthday. In a world that is supposed to be chiefly swayed

by hunger and by love Mrs. Packletide was an exception; her

movements and motives were largely governed by dislike of Loona


Circumstances proved propitious. Mrs. Packletide had offered a

thousand rupees for the opportunity of shooting a tiger without over-much

risk or exertion, and it so happened that a neighbouring

village could boast of being the favoured rendezvous of an animal

of respectable antecedents, which had been driven by the increasing

infirmities of age to abandon game-killing and confine its appetite

to the smaller domestic animals. The prospect of earning the

thousand rupees had stimulated the sporting and commercial instinct

of the villagers; children were posted night and day on the

outskirts of the local jungle to head the tiger back in the unlikely

event of his attempting to roam away to fresh hunting-grounds, and

the cheaper kinds of goats were left about with elaborate carelessness

to keep him satisfied with his present quarters. The one great

anxiety was lest he should die of old age before the date appointed

for the memsahib’s shoot. Mothers carrying their babies home

through the jungle after the day’s work in the fields hushed their

singing lest they might curtail the restful sleep of the venerable


The great night duly arrived, moonlit and cloudless. A platform

had been constructed in a comfortable and conveniently placed

tree, and thereon crouched Mrs. Packletide and her paid companion,

Miss Mebbin. A goat, gifted with a particularly persistent

bleat, such as even a partially deaf tiger might be reasonably expected

to hear on a still night, was tethered at the correct distance.

With an accurately sighted rifle and a thumb-nail pack of

patience cards the sportswoman awaited the coming of the quarry.

“I suppose we are in some danger?” said Miss Mebbin.

She was not actually nervous about the wild beast, but she had

a morbid dread of performing an atom more service than she had

been paid for.

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Packletide; “it’s a very old tiger. It couldn’t

spring up here even if it wanted to.”

“If it’s an old tiger I think you ought to get it cheaper. A thousand

rupees is a lot of money.”

Louisa Mebbin adopted a protective elder-sister attitude towards

money in general, irrespective of nationality or denomination. Her

energetic intervention had saved many a rouble from dissipating itself

in tips in some Moscow hotel, and francs and centimes clung

to her instinctively under circumstances which would have driven

them headlong from less sympathetic hands. Her speculations as to

the market depreciation of tiger remnants were cut short by the

appearance on the scene of the animal itself. As soon as it caught

sight of the tethered goat it lay flat on the earth, seemingly less from

a desire to take advantage of all available cover than for the purpose

of snatching a short rest before commencing the grand attack.

“I believe it’s ill,” said Louisa Mebbin, loudly in Hindustani, for

the benefit of the village headman, who was in ambush in a neighbouring


“Hush!” said Mrs. Packletide, and at that moment the tiger commenced

ambling towards his victim.

“Now, now!” urged Miss Mebbin with some excitement; “if he

doesn’t touch the goat we needn’t pay for it.” (The bait was an


The rifle flashed out with a loud report, and the great tawny

beast sprang to one side and then rolled over in the stillness of

death. In a moment a crowd of excited natives had swarmed on

to the scene, and their shouting speedily carried the glad news

to the village, where a thumping of tom-toms took up the chorus

of triumph. And their triumph and rejoicing found a ready echo in

the heart of Mrs. Packletide; already that luncheon-party in Curzon

Street seemed immeasurably nearer.

It was Louisa Mebbin who drew attention to the fact that the

goat was in death-throes from a mortal bullet-wound, while no

trace of the rifle’s deadly work could be found on the tiger. Evidently

the wrong animal had been hit, and the beast of prey had

succumbed to heart-failure, caused by the sudden report of the rifle,

accelerated by senile decay. Mrs. Packletide was pardonably annoyed

at the discovery; but, at any rate, she was the possessor of a

dead tiger, and the villagers, anxious for their thousand rupees,

gladly connived at the fiction that she had shot the beast. And

Miss Mebbin was a paid companion. Therefore did Mrs. Packletide

face the cameras with a light heart, and her pictured fame reached

from the pages of the Texas Weekly Snapshot to the illustrated

Monday supplement of the Novoe Vremya. As for Loona Bimberton,

she refused to look at an illustrated paper for weeks, and her

letter of thanks for the gift of a tiger-claw brooch was a model of

repressed emotions. The luncheon-party she declined; there

are limits beyond which repressed emotions become dangerous.

From Curzon Street the tiger-skin rug travelled down to the

Manor House, and was duly inspected and admired by the

county, and it seemed a fitting and appropriate thing when

Mrs. Packletide went to the County Costume Ball in the

character of Diana. She refused to fall in, however, with

Clovis’s tempting suggestion of a primeval dance party, at

which every one should wear the skins of beasts they had

recently slain. “I should be in rather a Baby Bunting

condition,” confessed Clovis, “with a miserable

rabbit-skin or two to wrap up in, but then,” he added, with

a rather malicious glance at Diana’s proportions, “my

figure is quite as good as that Russian dancing boy’s.”

“How amused every one would be if they knew what really

happened,” said Louisa Mebbin a few days after the ball.

“What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Packletide quickly.

“How you shot the goat and frightened the tiger to

death,” said Miss Mebbin, with her disagreeably pleasant


“No one would believe it,” said Mrs. Packletide, her

face changing colour as rapidly as though it were going

through a book of patterns before post-time.

“Loona Bimberton would,” said Miss Mebbin. Mrs.

Packletide’s face settled on an unbecoming shade of greenish


“You surely wouldn’t give me away?” she asked.

“I’ve seen a week-end cottage near Darking that I should

rather like to buy,” said Miss Mebbin with seeming

irrelevance. “Six hundred and eighty, freehold. Quite a

bargain, only I don’t happen to have the money.”


Louisa Mebbin’s pretty week-end cottage, christened by her

“Les Fauves,” and gay in summer-time with its garden

borders of tiger-lilies, is the wonder and admiration of her


“It is a marvel how Louisa manages to do it,” is the

general verdict.

Mrs. Packletide indulges in no more big-game shooting.

“The incidental expenses are so heavy,” she confides to

inquiring friends.