OPINIONS OF THE PRESS

“Mrs. Croker has already achieved a secure foothold in that temple of Anglo-Indian fiction whereof Mr. Rudyard Kipling is the high-priest. Her tales have a freshness and piquancy that are all their own.... So long as the author of ‘Diana Barrington’ can produce works of the quality of ‘Village Tales and Jungle Tragedies,’ she will assuredly not lack an audience.”—Athenæum.

“These tales are really original and excellent work. Mrs. Croker knows her India minutely, and proves her knowledge by a thousand delicate touches.”—Woman.

“Mrs. Croker writes of India as one knowing it well, and with deep sympathy for the people among whom her time was spent, for the village sorrows and tragedies she was able to share. And in a considerable measure she succeeds in bringing home to readers at home the daily life of the East.”—Glasgow Herald.

“The stories are all written from a peculiar knowledge of the life they describe, and with a lively eye directed to its picturesqueness. They make an interesting and entertaining book, which will be heartily enjoyed by every one who reads it.”—Scotsman.

“The magician’s car of fiction next transports us to India, the magician being that very competent and attractive writer Mrs. B. M. Croker. Her ‘Village Tales’ are so good that they bracket her, in our judgment, with Mrs. F. A. Steel in comprehension of native Indian life and character.”—Times.

“Mrs. Croker makes the tales interesting and attractive, and her ready sympathy with the Indian people, whom we are gradually coming to know through the interpretation of some of our very best writers, strikes the reader afresh in this volume.”—World.

“Mrs. Croker shows once more a pretty talent, and her volume is replete with sentiment and romance. Her animal stories are really touching.”—Globe.

“Mrs. Croker’s volume is bright and readable. She has done good work already in other fields; one expects a story of hers to be at any rate pleasant reading. These Indian tales are no exception.”—North British Mail.

“Mrs. Croker’s stories show her grasp of Indian character, and her realisation of the nameless charm which casts its glamour over the East and its peoples.... ‘Two Little Travellers,’ the last story, is exquisitely pathetic.”—Star.

“The stories are among the best of their kind. The author knows equally well how to write of Anglo-Indian or purely native life.”—Morning Post.

“Mrs. Croker, who knows India exceptionally well, and is a practised writer, has handled this variety of subjects in a spirited and entertaining style.”—Literary World.

“A prettily got-up book containing seven Indian tales, well told, with abundant evidence of a thorough knowledge of the country and its people.... There is not a dull line in the book, and in its perusal the desire for more keeps growing, even to the end of the last beautiful tale of Indian life.”—Asiatic Quarterly Review.

“Mrs. Croker’s seven little tales of native India are such very quick and easy reading that many persons will probably overlook the skill to which the result is due. The authoress evidently knows both what a short story ought to be, and how to make one.”—Graphic.

“Brilliant pictures of Indian life and manners. Mrs. Croker possesses the pen of a ready writer united to the imagination of a true artist.”—Liberal.

“The tales are simple in themselves and plainly told, with an unmistakable atmosphere of truth and reality about them.”—Guardian.

“The quality of Mrs. Croker’s work is at this time sufficiently well known, and it is enough to say that in her last volume are to be found all those qualities which have secured for its predecessors a welcome at the hands of the public.”—Tablet.

JUNGLE TALES

BY B. M. CROKER

Author of

‘Pretty Miss Neville,’ ‘Diana Barrington,’ ‘The Spanish Necklace,’ ‘In Old Madras,’ etc.

A NEW IMPRESSION WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY JOHN CHARLTON

LONDON HOLDEN & HARDINGHAM 1913

THESE TALES ARE INSCRIBED TO OLD FRIENDS IN THE CENTRAL AND NORTH-WEST PROVINCES IN MEMORY OF MANY PLEASANT HOURS IN CAMP AND CANTONMENT.

B. M. C.

A FREE-WILL OFFERING.

“Kismiss,” as the natives call it, is anything but a jovial and merry season to me, and I heartily sympathize with those prudent souls who flee from the station or cantonment, and bury themselves afar off in the jungle, until the festive season has been succeeded by the practical New Year! Christmas in India is an expensive anniversary to a needy subaltern such as I am. Putting aside the necessary tips to the mess-servants, the letter-corporal, and colour-sergeant, I have my own retinue (about ten in number), who overwhelm me with wreaths and flowers culled from my garden, and who expect, in return, solid rupees of the realm. This is reasonable enough; but it passes the limits of reason and patience when other peopled body-servants, peons, syces, and all the barrack dhobies, and every “dog” boy in the station, lie in ambush in order to thrust evil-smelling marigolds under my nose, with expectant salaams! Last Christmas cost me nearly the price of a pony—this Christmas, I resolved to fly betimes with my house-mate, Jones of the D.P.W. We

would put in for a week’s leave, and eat our plum-pudding at least sixty miles from Kori.

Alas! my thrifty little scheme was knocked on the head by a letter from my cousin Algy Langley. He is the eldest son of an eldest son; I am the younger son of a second son: and whereas I am a sub. in an infantry regiment, grilling on the plains of India, and working for my daily bread, Algy has run out for one cold weather, merely in search of variety and amusement.

“Why on earth should relations think it necessary to meet on one particular day, in order to eat a tasteless bird and an indigestible pudding?”

I put this question to Jones, as we sat in our mutual verandah, opening the midday dâk.

“Just look at this; it’s a beastly nuisance!” and I handed him Algy’s note, which said—

“Dear old Perky (my Christian name is Perkin),—This is to give notice that I am coming to eat my Christmas dinner with you. I arrive on the 21st, per mail train.—Yours,

“A. Langley.”

“What is your cousin like?” inquired Jones.

“Oh, a regular young London swell, who has never roughed it in his life. I suppose I shall have to turn out of my room,” I grumbled; “and I must borrow Robinson’s bamboo cart to meet him, for I believe he would faint if I put him in a bullock tonga at first—he must arrive at that by degrees!”

“Is there no chance of our getting off to Karwassa? Wouldn’t he come and have a try for the man-eater?” urged Jones.

“Not he!” I rejoined emphatically; “he is a lady-killer—that is his only kind of sport. I’m glad I have not put in for my leave; you and I will go later—the tiger will wait.”

“Yes, he has waited a good while,” retorted Jones, sarcastically; “nearly three years, and about a dozen shikar parties have been got up for his destruction, and still he keeps his skin! But, somehow, I have a presentiment that we shall get him.”

The next day Jones and I met Algy at the station. He had brought three servants, a pile of luggage, and looked quite beautiful as he stepped out on the platform, wearing a creaseless suit, Russia-leather boots, gloves, and a white gauze veil to keep off the dust. His handkerchief was suggestive of the most “up-to-date” delicate scent, as he passed it languidly over his forehead, and gave directions to have his late compartment cleared.

As books, an ice-box, fruit, a fan, cushions, and a banjo, were handed out one by one, I gathered, from Jones’s expressive glance, that he granted that my cousin was a hopeless subject for the jungle.

“Well, Perky,” he said, slapping me on the back, “I’ve got everything now—what are you waiting for?”

“Your lady’s-maid,” I promptly answered, as I nodded at the banjo, pillows, and fan.

“I like to be comfortable,” he confessed. “One may as well take one’s ease as not; it has an excellent and soothing effect on the temper.”

But I noticed that he caught sight of Jones’s grin, and coloured deeply—whether with rage or shame, I could not guess. As I drove my guest up to our lines, I secretly marvelled as to what had brought him to our little Mofussil station, a two days’ railway journey through the flattest, ugliest country. He had been staying at Government House, Calcutta, at various splendid Residencies, and had had every opportunity of seeing India from the most commanding and luxurious point of view. Why had he sought me out?

Later on, as we sprawled in long chairs in my portico overlooking a sun-baked compound,—with a view chiefly consisting of the back of my neighbour’s stables, and Jones’s little brown bear, mowing and moping, under a scraggy mango tree,—I put the inevitable question:

“Well, Algy, what do you think of India?”

“Not much,” he answered. “It is not a bit like what I have expected: it is not as Eastern as Egypt. The scenery that I have seen consists of bushes, boulders, and terra-cotta plains. I don’t care about ruins and buildings; what I want to come at are the people and customs of the land—so far, it’s all England, not India: England at the sea-side, dressing, dancing, racing, flirting; clothes are thinner, manners are easier; but it’s England—England—England!”

I did what I could for him. I took him to a garden-party, to call on the beauty of the station, to write his name in the general’s book, to mess, to a soldier’s sing-song; and still he was discontented. He had been faintly amused with our “pot” gardens and trotting bullocks; nevertheless, he continued to grumble in this style—

“Your band plays the last new coster song, your ladies believe that they wear the latest fashions, your men read the latest news not two days old, your servants speak English and speak it fluently. Your butler plays the fiddle, and he told me this morning that my banjo was ‘awfully nice.’ I desire that you will introduce me (if you can) to India without European clothes—stripped and naked. I want to get below the surface, below officialdom, and general orders, and precedence; scrape the skin, and show me Hindostan.”

“Show me something out of the common.” This was his querulous parrot-cry.

“Would you care to come out into the jungle sixty miles away,” I ventured, “to a place that has no English attributes, and help to shoot a notorious man-eating tiger? There is a reward of five hundred rupees for his skin. For the last two years he has devastated the country.”

“Like it!” cried Algy, suddenly, sitting erect, “why, it’s the very thing. I’ll go like a shot. I am ready to start to-night. What’s the name of the place?”

“Karwassa. This man-eater has killed, they say, more than a hundred people, and if we shoot him, we cover ourselves with glory; if we fail, we are no worse than half the regiment, and most of the station.”

Algy figuratively leapt at the idea; he was out of his chair, pacing the verandah, long ere I had ceased to speak.

“How soon could we start?”

“As soon as I obtained leave,” I replied.

“Oh, bother leave!” he retorted, impatiently.

“Still, it is a necessary precaution,” I answered. “If I go without it I shall be cashiered, and that would be a bother.”

“All right; put in for it at once. The sooner we are off the better,” cried Algy. “Let us get the first shikari in the province, and if he puts us fairly on the tiger, the five hundred rupees shall be his. I pay all expenses.”

“But Jones wants——”

“Yes, Jones, by all means,” he interrupted; “you had better lay your heads together without delay. He told me he was a born organizer, so you might, perhaps, leave the transport and commissariat in his hands, whilst you secure leave, and the keenest and best shikari. Money no object.”

“You are keen enough, Algy,” I remarked; “but, of course, you have no experience of big game. Can you shoot?”

“I can hit a stag, and I’ve accounted for crocodile, but I have never seen a tiger in a wild state.”

“Ah! and you’ll find a tiger is quite another pair of shoes,” I assured him impressively.

The day before Christmas we started in the highest spirits. Algy wore a serviceable shikar suit, strong blue putties, and shooting-boots, and looked as workmanlike as possible. Our destination, Karwassa, lay sixty miles due north, and we travelled forty-five miles along the smooth trunk road in a dogcart, with relays of horses, and arrived early in the afternoon at Munser Dâk Bungalow—a neat white building, in a neat little compound, that was almost swallowed up by the surrounding jungle. Here we experienced our first breakdown. Jones prided himself on doing everything on a “system”—but the system failed ignominiously. Our luggage and servants were fifteen miles behind, and we could not proceed that night, so we resigned ourselves into the hands of the Dâk bungalow khansamah, who slew the usual Dâk bungalow dinner for our behoof. There was a fair going on in the village, and we strolled across to inspect it. A fair of the kind was no novelty to me; but Algy was childishly delighted with all he witnessed, and stood gazing in profound amazement at the stalls of Huka

heads, pewter anklets, bangles, and coarse, bright native cloths for turbans and sarees; the money was chiefly copper pice and cowrie shells—the shell currency was a complete revelation to our Londoner, as was a tangle-haired, ash-bedaubed fakir, with his head thrust through a square iron frame, so devised that rest was impossible. He could never lean back, never lie down, never know ease. He had worn this instrument of torture for twelve years, and was a most holy man—so Nuddoo, the shikari, informed us.

“But what is the good of it?” demanded Algy. “What the dickens does he do it for?”

“For a vow,” was the solemn reply.

“I’d rather be dead than have to wear an iron gate round my neck,” rejoined Algy. “But I suppose he thinks he is doing the right thing, and probably he is a good sort.”

And he gave the good sort five rupees.

Next morning we started in real earnest, for the real jungle—each on a separate little cart or chukrun, drawn by a pair of small trotting bullocks; the driver rode on the pole, and behind him there was just room for one person, if he curled himself up, and sat cross-legged. We formed quite a long procession, as we passed down the village street, and all the population came out to speed the sahibs, “who were going to try and shoot the Karwassa man-eater.” Judging by their looks, they were by no means sanguine of our success.

Our road was a mere track, up and down the sides of shallow water-courses, across the dry beds of great rivers, over low hills, and through heavy jungle. The country grew wilder and wilder; here and there we scared a jackal, here and there a herd of deer; villages were very few and far between, and we had passed two that were absolutely deserted: melancholy hamlets, with broken chatties, abandoned ploughs, and grass-grown hearths—now the abode of wild dogs. We were gradually approaching our destination, a cattle country, below a long range of densely wooded hills; having halted at midday to rest our animals for a few hours, we then set out again. But twenty miles is a long distance for a little trotting bullock, especially if his head be turned from home. The eager canter, or brisk trot, had now become a mere spasmodic crawl; for the last mile Algy—the most keen and energetic of the party—had been belabouring and shouting at his pair. What a sight for his club friends, could they have beheld him, the elegant Algy, hoarse, coatless, and

breathless! In spite of his desperate exertions, his cattle came to a full stop, and suddenly lay down—an example promptly followed by others. “Darkness was coming,” urged Nuddoo, pointing to the yellow sunset. “We were near an evil country, and it was about his usual time. Karwassa was two koss further, and we had best camp and light fires, and spend the night where we had halted. The sahibs could sleep under the carts, their servants were in waiting, also their food—all would be well.”

I must honestly confess that I thought this a most sensible proposition; but Algy, who had suddenly developed an entirely new character, would not listen to it. During his short sojourn in India, he had picked up a wonderful amount of useful Hindostani words, which he strung together recklessly, and by means of some of them, accompanied by frantic gesticulation, he informed all present that “he was not going to sleep under a cart, but was resolved to spend the night at Karwassa. He would walk there.”

After a short, but stormy, altercation, my cousin carried his point, and set out, accompanied (with great reluctance) by Jones, Nuddoo the shikari, and myself. Algy took command of the party, and got over the ground at an astonishing pace. The yellow light faded and faded, and was succeeded by a grey deathly pallor that rapidly settled down upon the whole face of nature. We marched two and two, along the grass-grown, neglected roads, glancing askance at every bush, at every big tuft of elephant grass (at least, I speak for myself). At last, to my intense relief, the smoke and fires of a village came in view. It proved to be Karwassa—Karwassa strongly entrenched behind its mud walls and a bamboo palisade. After some parley we were admitted by the chowkidar (or watchman), and presently surrounded by the villagers, a poverty-stricken crew, with a depressed, hunted look.

“Once more a party of sahibs come to shoot the man-eaters,” they exclaimed. “Ah, many sahibs had come and come and gone, and naught availed them against the Bagh. He was no Janwar—but an evil spirit.”

“But two days ago,” said the Malgoozar, or head-man—a high-caste Brahmin, with a high-bred face—“he had taken a boy from before his mother’s eyes, as she tilled the patch of vegetables; the screams of the child—he had heard them himself. Ah, ye-yo!”

And he shook his enormous orange turban, and his handsome dignified head, in a truly melancholy fashion. “Moreover, the tiger had taken the woman’s husband—there was not a house in the village that had not lost at least one inmate.”

“Why did they not go away?” I asked.

“Yea—truly, others had abandoned their houses and lands, and fled—but to what avail? The thing was not a Janwar, but a devil.”

A murmur of assent signified that the villagers had accepted their scourge, with the apathetic fatalism of their race. We were presently conducted to an empty hut, provided with broad string beds—and a light. Our Christmas dinner was simple; it consisted of chuppatties and well water, and our spirits were in keeping with our fare; the surrounding misery had infected us. We were even indebted for our present lodgings to the tiger—he had dined upon its former tenant about a month previously. By all accounts he was old, and lame of one hind leg, and had discovered that a human being is a far easier prey than nimble cattle, or fleeting deer. He had studied the habits of his victims, and would stalk the unwary, or the loiterer, like a great cat. Alas! many were the tragedies; with success he had grown bolder, and even broad noonday, and the interior of the village itself, now afforded no protection from his horrible incursions.