Here we
were placed in passes, with great caution and mystery, by the shikari and
his chief-of-the-staff--the "oldest inhabitant" of Vernaboug; and here we
sat in the morning stillness until a distant clamour and the faint beating
of tom-toms afar off made us sit up more warily, and watch eagerly for the
expected bear.
The yells increase, and the tom-toms, vigorously banged, seem calculated
to fuss any self-respecting bear into fits. We watch a narrow space
between two bushes some dozen yards away, and see that the Mannlicher
across our knees and the smooth-bore, ball loaded in the right and
chokeless barrel, lie handy for instant use.
Hidden in the dense jungle, some hundred yards below, sits Mrs. Locock on
the matted top of a hazel, while Jane, chittering with suppressed
excitement, crouches a few paces behind me.
The beaters approach, and pandemonium reigns. A few scared birds dart past,
but no bear comes; and when the first brown body shows among the brushwood
we shout to stop the uproar, and all move on to another beat.
Four "honks" produced nothing, so far as I was concerned; but a
bear--according to her shikari--passed close by Mrs. Locock, so thickly
screened by jungle that she couldn't see it. This may be so, but Kashmir
shikaris have remarkably vivid imaginations.
After a delightful morning to all parties concerned--for we were much
amused, the coolies were adequately paid, and the bear wasn't worried--we
returned to breakfast, and then marched fifteen hot miles into Gunderbal,
where we found the Smithsons, with whom we dined.
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