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Srikanta 'It wasn't a bear, father,' said Chhotda and Jatinda again and again. 'It was a wolf. It growled 'Hoom' and sat on the doormat on its curled tail.'

When Mejda revived sufficiently, he heaved a deep sigh, with his eyes still closed, and ejaculated, 'The royal Bengal tiger!'

But where was it? Whether royal Bengal tiger or wolf or bear, how could it have come into the house, and where had it gone? When so many people had seen it, there must certainly have been something.

Some of us believed and some of us remained sceptical; but all began to search, lantern in hand, the fear of the unknown imprinted on every face.

All of a sudden, Kishori Sing, the wrestler, said, 'There, there he sits', and with one bound he flew to the verandah, followed by a pushing, jostling, elbowing throng, each one anxious to squeeze himself into the verandah, and none able to wait for a moment. There was a pomegranate tree at one end of the courtyard. Beneath its bushy branches a big animal was plainly seen; yes, it was exactly like a tiger. In the twinkling of an eye the verandah became empty and the sitting-room was filled with a panic-stricken crowd. From the midst of this crowd came the excited voice of my uncle, 'Get some spears—get some guns.' By guns he meant an old match-lock affair, with a ramrod, belonging to our neighbour Gagan Babu. There was certainly no objection to getting it, but who was to bring it? The pomegranate tree was close to the first gate: and there the tiger was sitting quietly. The up-country servants had grown dumb, nor did one hear any offer from the neighbours who had come to see the fun.