Produced by Al Haines.
Cover]
"Here is the child, Mr. Desborough," cried Oliver. _Page_160]
Pre-title page]
ALIVE IN THE JUNGLE
A Story for the Young
BY ELEANOR STREDDER
_Author of "Jack and his Ostrich," "Archie's Find" etc._
"In the night, O the night. When the wolves are howling." TENNYSON.
T. NELSON AND SONS _London, Edinburgh, and New York_ 1892
*Contents*
I. THE OLD GRAY WOLF II. IN PURSUIT III. HOW THE SEARCH ENDED IV. THE WOLF'S LAIR V. NOAK-HOLLY VI. AWAY TO THE HILLS VII. THE RANA'S SONS VIII. THE INVITATION IX. OLIVER AND HIS UNCLE X. A VISIT TO THE RANA'S CASTLE XI. THE FOOTPRINT XII. BEATING THE KOOND XIII. CAUGHT IN A TRAP XIV. THE HOMEWARD ROAD XV. A LITTLE SAVAGE XVI. THE CONCLUSION
*ALIVE IN THE JUNGLE.*
*CHAPTER I.*
_*THE OLD GRAY WOLF.*_
Night was brooding over the wide and swampy Bengal plain. The moon hadsunk low in the west, and was hiding behind a bank of threateningclouds. Darkness and shadow covered the sleeping world around. But thestilly quiet which marked "the darkest hour of all the night" was brokenby the fierce growling of a tiger and a buffalo, fighting furiously onthe open highroad, within a dozen yards of Mr. Desborough's indigofactory.
The jackal pack were gathering among the distant hills, already scentingtheir prey. On they came, rushing down the nearest valley in answer totheir leader's call--shrieking, wailing, howling in their haste to be intime to pounce upon the tiger's leavings; an ever-increasing wave ofsound that startled the weary factory-workers, sleeping in theirmud-walled huts under the mango trees. The pack sweep round thestraw-thatched sheds belonging to the factory, and gather in front ofMr. Desborough's house.
This was a large one-storied building, looking very much like a Swisscottage, with its gabled roof and white-painted walls. The broad eavesprojected so far beyond the walls that they covered the veranda, whichran right round the house. Like the sheds of the factory, it wasthatched. Beautiful climbing plants festooned the columns whichsupported the veranda, and flung their long trailing arms across thepointed gables. A whole colony of wild birds nestle in the reedythatch, and find out quiet corners in the cool shadow of that wideveranda. A pair of owls are wheeling round and round. Kites, hoopoes,and blue jays find such comfortable homes beneath Mr. Desborough'seaves, and bring up such numerous families, that the whole place seemsalive with twittering wings and chirping voices. But now theflying-foxes, which have hung all day head downwards from the trees likeso many black bags, are screaming and chattering at their shrillest.
The hot May night seems more oppressive than ever. There is neitherpeace nor rest. Every door and window in the bungalow is wide open, forwithin the heat is intense.
The youngest child is ill with fever, and cannot sleep.
Like so many English fathers and mothers living in India, Mr. and Mrs.Desborough have lost several of their children. Grief for those thatwere taken from them makes them watch over the dear ones that are leftwith nervous anxiety. Mr. Desborough had put up a tent on the lawn,hoping the little sufferer might find rest in the fresher air,surrounded by the cool night-breezes and the sweet scent of the flowers.
The poor child was dozing on its mother's lap when the yell of thejackals arose. They were quite safe in their tent; for a mat was tiedacross the door, and nothing could get in to hurt them. But how wastheir boy to sleep in such a noise?
The fierce crescendo was reaching its loudest, when Mr. Desborough cameout with his loaded gun in his hand, and fired it into the air, hopingthe sound of a shot would scare the jackals away. He was right: thepack swept past with a mad rush, helter-skelter on the tiger's track.He paused on the steps of the veranda, and looked cautiously around him.
The dark shadows of the trees were thrown across the dewy grass.Overgrown bushes, swaying in the night-wind, seemed to take tothemselves fantastic shapes. His garden might well be described as onewild tangle of flowers. Roses of every shade, carnations, mignonnette,petunias, myrtles, choked each other: tall scarlet lilies andpomegranate flowers caught the twining honeysuckle, and taught itstrailing branches to kiss the ground. Amidst this luxuriant profusion,in the glamour of a darkened heaven, it was no wonder Mr. Desborough didnot distinguish the flick of a tawny tail, creeping stealthily behind agiant rhododendron. At the sound of the shot the old gray wolf skulkeddown amidst the folded flowers; and the father, after exchanging a wordwith his wife, went back to his bed comforted, for his darling, hislittle Horace, was conscious--yes, conscious--and crying for histwin-brother Carlyon. Racy and Carl, as they were usually called, hadnever before been parted.
Poor little Racy had not known much about it when his mother sent Carlinto another room, and refused to let Kathleen give him one good-nightkiss. Kathleen was their only sister--a soft-eyed, fragile girl, aboutnine years old. She had wept with her father and mother over an emptybassinet; and so, when two little brothers were given to her in one day,her delight knew no bounds. From the hour of their birth she becametheir devoted slave.
Carl, in the full wilfulness of his second summer, was too little tounderstand the reason why he was banished from his mother's lap andparted from Racy. He strutted about in his indignant anger, looking asred as a turkey-cock; and no one but Kathleen could do anything withhim.
She invented some fresh amusement every time the clamour for Racy wasrenewed. Her last great success was the manufacture of a bridle of redribbon for Sailor, a big black retriever, the favourite playfellow ofthe twins.
Kathleen, too, was wakened by the yelling of the jackals. She heard herfather's step in the veranda, and listened to the sound of his gun as ifit were a waking dream.
A voracious mosquito, which had crept inside the net curtains whichenveloped her little bed, stung her cheek. Up started Kathleen, andcalled to the ayah, or native nurse, who slept on a mat by Carlyon'scot. Yes, there was something the matter; she was sure of it now. Asmall dusky hand put back the thin curtains; a gentle, smiling blackface peeped at her; and cold water was sprinkled over the flushedforehead and burning pillow, until Kathleen felt refreshed. Her wingedtormentor was caught and killed, and the ayah would have left her; butno. Kathleen was broad awake now. She was thinking about her father.Something was the matter. Racy was worse. She begged her ayah to goand see.
Carl was safe in his cot on the other side of the room, forgetting hisbaby troubles in happy slumber. So the ayah, who fully shared her littlemistress's anxiety, ventured outside the curtained screen, or purdah, asthey called it, which was drawn half across the open doorway. The roomwas large and lofty. It was at the corner of the house, with doorsopening into the veranda on two sides. This helped to keep it bearablein a usual way, with the help of a great white calico fan fixed to theceiling. This was called the punkah. Two of the native servants werekept in the veranda all night to work it by turns. They were the punkahcoolies. One of them was fast asleep on his mat, and the other wasnodding as he lazily pulled the rope which moved the fan. They assuredthe ayah all was right. No one was afraid of the jackals. They seldomhu
rt any one unless they were interfered with.
Whilst she was speaking, Kathleen grew impatient, and, persuaded thatRacy was worse, she threw aside the thin sheet, her only covering, andran to the other door. She was not tall enough to look over the purdah,and slipped softly into the bathroom adjoining. All the doors had beenset wide open, so she made no noise to waken her little brother. Therewas no glass in the window of the bathroom. It was latticed, but it toowas wide open, and the blind was down. These blinds, or tatties, aremade of grass, and are kept damp to cool the air passing through them.
The troubled child managed to unfasten it and push it just a littleaside. There was the tent gleaming white beneath the spreading trees.She could hear her mother singing some soothing lullaby. The two tallcarriage-horses were cropping the tender buds from the hedge of roseswhich divided the garden from their paddock. She could see the gleam ofthe lilied pool beneath the farthest trees, with the fire-flies dancinground its banks like an ever-moving illumination. She heard the cries ofthe tiger and the deep bellow of the vanquished buffalo, and ran back toher bed in a fright, leaving the blind awry.
They were safe from the tiger; for a tiger always turns away from afence, and Mr. Desborough's grounds were surrounded by a high bank, witha low stone wall on the top, shutting in garden, paddock, andstable-yard, with only one gate for the carriage, and that was locked.How had the wolf got in--that grim, gaunt creature, which still satwashing its torn shoulder behind the rhododendron unseen by any one? Ithad had a round with the buffalo before the tiger came out for hismidnight stroll, and got that ugly scratch from her antagonist's horn.
So the wolf left the buffalo to the tiger, and plunged into the streamwhich fed the pool. The water was low, and the wolf was wary. The divewas pleasant. A scramble up the opposite bank landed her in Mr.Desborough's garden. Kathleen's peep-hole did not escape the wolf'sobservation. She saw the child's white face, and thought of herhalf-grown cubs. She dashed through the window, under the loosenedblind, leaped clear over the row of tall earthenware water-jars whichstood before it, and followed the child into the sleeping-room. Herunerring scent guided her to the cot where Carl lay tossing. He hadthrown off the thin covering, and was fighting away the mosquito-netwhich enveloped his cot. She seized the child in her teeth, and wasover the purdah with a bound.
Kathleen's wild shriek of terror called back the ayah.
The first fault gray of the summer twilight entered with her, and restedon Kathleen's long fair hair, but the empty bed in the other corner wasstill in shadow.
"Carl! Carl!" gasped Kathleen, and fainted in her nurse's arms.
The hubbub that arose among the coolies who were sleeping in theveranda, the frantic cries of "Sahib! sahib!" brought Mr. Desborough tothe scene of dismay.
He had reloaded his gun, and snatched it up as he came, out of allpatience at the ill-timed noise, when he had enjoined silence on everyone whilst his darling boy was sleeping at last--a sleep which,undisturbed, meant life.
Seeing nothing to account for the consternation among his servants, hewas on the point of refusing to listen to their entreaty.
"Shoot, sahib, shoot! a booraba by the nursery!"
"A booraba--a wolf!" he repeated, discharging his gun into the air withthe rapidity of lightning, as anger changed to fear.
"Unloose the dogs!" he cried, preparing to give it chase, as his keeneye detected a break in the bushes of the garden, and the trampled headsof the flowers, which marked the track of the wolf. He knew very wellthat not one of his Hindu servants would dare to kill it, even if theyhad the chance. It was a matter of conscience with them. It was athing they would not, dare not do, under any circumstances; but theyflew like the wind to obey his commands.
The hounds came bounding round him, and were soon on the trail of theirmidnight visitor. They scented the wolf to the edge of the pool, andthen paused at fault, poking with their noses among the water-lilies,and looking round at their master with short, angry barks.
Evidently the wolf had once more taken to the water, and the scent waslost. Mr. Desborough saw something moving on the other side of thepool, among the reeds and grasses.
He quickly readjusted the barrel of his gun, and was preparing to fire,when his chuprassie, the Hindu servant who carried messages in the dayand watched the premises at night, caught his arm, exclaiming, "No, no,sahib! no shoot booraba."
Mr. Desborough shook him off angrily, and levelled his gun.
"Shoot booraba, shoot baby!" cried out another of his servants, who hadjust overtaken him. The poor fellow was trembling like a leaf.---"Cometo the beebee, Kathleen!" he entreated. "Come quickly!"
The truth flashed upon the father's mind--the wolf had already enteredhis nursery. He rushed to his wife's tent. His servants stopped him.
"The mem-sahib" (for so they called their mistress)--"the mem-sahibknows nothing yet. Spare her till we are sure."
One stride, and Mr. Desborough was over the veranda railing, parting thechintz curtains of the nursery purdah. The ayah threw herself at hisfeet, and began to tear her hair.
Now Mr. Desborough knew very well that his black servants exaggerateddreadfully. Their excited imaginations magnified everything. It is theway in the East, and a bad way it is. Having had two or three falsealarms, he never believed more than half they told him. Could hebelieve them now? "Where is Kathleen?" he demanded sternly.
In another minute Kathleen's face was buried on his shoulder, as shesobbed out her piteous story. "A dog, papa--a huge, horrid, lean, lankdog--rushed out of the bathroom, and ran away with Carl."