66 The Tiger on the Hudson.

and as he had a big stock of hair-bristling stories
to tell about his thrilling adventures and escapes,
he was a rare companion. There was a wide fire-
place in the room, a good fireplace, which knew its
duty, and performed it well, taking its smoke
decently up the chimney and not spitting it out into
the room, as so many spiteful fireplaces do. There
was no carpet on the floor, but across one end of
the room lay a magnificent rug, the skin of a
“Royal Bengal Tiger,’ which measured ten feet
from tip to tip. Uncle Ned had killed the tiger
himself, although Harry had never heard the story.

One time in the summer, when his uncle and he
were bathing, Harry had seen on his uncle’s arm a
long, cruel red scar, extending from shoulder to
wrist. ‘What is that?” said the boy.

“The Bengal tiger and I know all about that,”
was the answer, ‘and when you are ten years old,
I will tell you the story. You are too young
now.”

And Harry had not forgotten. He was ten
years old, on the twelfth of December, and his first
question to his uncle, when he came this time for