"I'll tell you,"
he said, "for this is an inaugural occasion, and I've never told the
story before to any one in the world. The experience was incredible,
and no one would believe it. But the proof that it really happened is
that the tiger has left its mark upon me till I die--"
"But you haven't died--yet, I mean," Maria observed.
"He means teeth, silly," Tim squelched her.
"Died in another sense than the one you mean," the great soldier and
former administrator of a province continued, "dyed yellow--"
"Oh-h-h! Is that why--?"
"That is why," he replied pathetically. "For living with that tiger
family so long, I almost turned into one myself. The tiger nature got
into me. I snarl and growl, I use my teeth ferociously when hungry, I
walk stealthily on tiptoe, I let my whiskers grow, and my colour has
the tint of Indian tigers' skins."
"Have you got a tail, too?"
He glared into the blue eyes of Maria, sternly. "It's growing," he
whispered horribly, "it's growing."
There was a pause in which credulity shook hands with faith. Belief
was in the air. If doubt did whisper, "Let me see, please," it was too
low to be quite audible.
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