The reporters gave him scant attention, though, for this was at a time when the Gaikwar of Baroda was unknown.
The stranger, after two or three days of idling, casually asked the way to the wild animal farm of his old friend, Colonel Hare.

It was easy enough to find.

At the village inn he was treated with tolerant contempt.

These brown fellows were forever coming and going, to and fro, from the colonel's.
At five o'clock in the afternoon of the thirty-first day of December, this East Indian peered cautiously into the French window of the Hare bungalow.

The picture he saw there sent a thrill into his heart.