He hesitated--said nothing for the moment--and wondered whether his best course would be to go ahead and pretend to beat out the jungle and tell some lie or other about the tiger having got away.

But Ralph Cunningham, with serious gray eyes fixed full on his, saved him the trouble of deciding.
"If it's all one to you, Mahommed Gunga," he said, the corner of his mouth just flickering, "we'll move on from here at once.

This is a beastly old bungalow to sleep in, and shooting tigers don't seem so terribly exciting to me.

Besides, the climate here must be rotten for the horses." "As you wish, sahib." "Very well--if the choice rests with me, I wish it.

It might--ah--save the villagers a lot of hard work beating through the jungle, mightn't it--besides, there'll be other tigers on the road." "Innumerable tigers, sahib." "Good.