There was so much recalling to
be done, so much remembering needed, and reviewing of statistics
concerning the flora and the fauna of the far East, that when at last
the rifle's cry rang out on the still night air, which, as we had
learned, in India carries sound to a much greater distance than in our
cold, Northern climes; when the mighty Bengal reeled and fell dying,
and Sister Flora sprang from her hiding place on the roof to sing a
hymn of praise; when all this had been told, Luther Warden banged the
book shut, arose, and looked at the clock.
[Illustration: The tiger story.]
"Mighty souls!" he cried. "It's long past bed-time. It's half-past
nine."
Back over the white road we went, Weston and Perry, Tim and I.
"Good-night, boys!" called the strange man cheerily from the gloom of
the tavern porch.
It was the first word he had spoken on our walk home.
"Is it two million five hundred and sixty thousand, or two hundred and
fifty-six thousand persons that are bitten annually by snakes in
India?" cried Tim, suddenly awaking from his moody silence.
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