and the wild pig grubbed up their crops, and now and again the tiger carried off a
man at twilight, within sight of the village gates.
Mowgli, who naturally knew something about what they were talking of, had
to cover his face not to show that he was laughing, while Buldeo, the Tower
musket across his knees, climbed on from one wonderful story to another, and
Mowgli’s shoulders shook.
Buldeo was explaining how the tiger that had carried away Messua’s son was
a ghost-tiger, and his body was inhabited by the ghost of a wicked, old money-
lender, who had died some years ago. “And I know that this is true,” he said,
“because Purun Dass always limped from the blow that he got in a riot when his
account books were burned, and the tiger that I speak of he limps, too, for the
tracks of his pads are unequal.”
“True, true, that must be the truth,” said the gray-beards, nodding together.