Now and again, lazily, I lean back to watch the
witless hoverings of a big butterfly, or sleepily listen to the increasing
sound of the tom-toms and the yells of the beaters, whose voices, as those
of demons of the pit, rend the peaceful air and add to my sense of
Olympian aloofness!
A feeling of drowsiness steals over me; that succulent cold chikor,
followed by a generous slice of cake upon which I so nobly lunched, clouds
somewhat my active faculties, and the article--"A Bear Battue in the
Himalayas"--which I am engaged in writing for the _Field_--seems to flag a
little.
Come, come! Begone dull sloth--let me continue--
"As the sound of the beaters swells upon the ear, and the thunder of the
tom-toms grows more insistent, the keen-eyed sportsman grasps more firmly
the lever of his four-barrelled Nordenfeldt and prepares to play upon the
bears his hail of stinging missiles. Hark! The plot is thickening, behind
yon dense screen at the end of the cover the ph---- bears are beginning to
crowd, the pattering of their feet upon the dead leaves sends a thrill
through the beating heart of the expectant sportsman. A few bears break
back amid wild yells from the coolies. One or two odd ones dart out here
and there at angles of the covert. Steady! Steady! Here they are,
following the lead of yon fine old cock; with a whirr and a rush the
bouquet is upon us. The shikari, mad with excitement, presses the second
Gatling and the light Howitzer into our hands as he screams: 'Bear to
right, sahib!--Bear over!!--Bear behind!!! Bang--bang!'"
"Eh? What? Oh, all right, shikari.
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