This first day was occupied in transferring our party, now swelled by
countless beaters and numerous huntsmen, not to mention all the retinue
of servants necessary for an Indian camp, to the neighbourhood of the
battlefield. There is not much conversation on these occasions, for the
party is apt to become scattered, and there is a general tone of
expectancy in the air, the old hands conversing more with the natives
who know the district than with each other, and the young ones either
wondering how many tigers they will kill, or listening open mouthed to
the tales of adventure reeled off by the yard by the old bearded
shikarry, who has slain the king of the jungle with a _kookrie_ in hand
to hand struggle when he was young, and bears the scars of the deadly
encounter on his brown chest to this day. Old Ghyrkins, who was
evidently in his element, rode about on a little _tat_, questioning
beaters and shikarries, and coming back every now and then to bawl up
some piece of information to the little collector, who had established
himself on one of the elephants and looked down over the edge of the
howdah, the great pith hat on his head making him look like an immense
mushroom with a very thin stem sprouting suddenly from the back of the
huge beast. He smiled pleasantly at the old sportsman from his
elevation, and seemed to know all about it.
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