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across a stretch of scrubland known as ‘the Plains’. It was on the Plains, emerging from a patch of scrub, that Biggles and the tiger came face to face.
    Frequently in later life Biggles would be faced by almost certain death, and every time some instinct of survival seems to have brought him through. It did so now. For the first time he was experiencing that strange clear-headedness in the face of danger which is the hallmark of the man of action. He could smell the rank stench of the animal, see the dull gleam in its yellow eyes and sense its vicious power. But, to his surprise, he was not afraid. Quite calmly, he considered what to do and found himself repeating some advice old Captain Lovell had once given him. ‘If you surprise a dangerous animal, never run. It’s fatal and youwouldn’t have a hope. Stand absolutely still, stare the beast out, and do your best to show him that you’re not afraid.’
    He did this now and for what seemed an age Biggles and the tiger stayed stock still, facing one another. Gradually it seemed that the advice would work. The tiger moved its head away, as if anxious to escape Biggles’ gaze. Its tail dropped and it was on the point of slinking off when Biggles made a terrible mistake. He sneezed. The tiger turned to face him in a flash, growled, crouched back on its haunches and prepared to spring.
    There was no question now of simply staring at the beast. The time for action had arrived, and very slowly Biggles raised his rifle to his shoulder, sighting the animal between the eyes. It moved forward, limping slightly, stopped as if still undecided, crouched again, then, uttering a low growl, darted forward. Biggles fired — to no avail. The beast came on. He fired again, still uselessly it seemed, and the tiger was almost on him when he fired straight at its open mouth.
    He never knew quite what happened next, for as he closed his eyes and waited for the blow to fall, the tiger uttered one last fearful growl, swerved past him and went bounding off into the shelter of the undergrowth. Then came an anti-climax. Biggles ran home to tell his father of the tiger and of his miraculous escape. But John Henry Bigglesworth seemed unimpressed. Not even a tiger in his own back yard could bring a flicker of excitement to that cold impassive man.
    â€˜Wounded it eh, did you boy? That’s bad. Wounded tiger is the very devil. I’ll send out word so that the people keep well clear of the Plains, and we’ll attend to Mr Tiger in the morning.’
    Biggles waited, hoping for praise or possibly some brief paternal sympathy. Even in Garhwal it wasn’t every day a boy of thirteen had an encounter with a tiger and escaped to tell the tale. But all his father said was, ‘Go and drink a glass of water, boy. You look as if you need it.’
    It was a remark that Biggles never would forget. And when, next day, he duly watched his father and the Captain shoot the tiger at the climax of a full-scale tiger hunt across the Plains, all that Biggles felt was bitterness and dreadful disappointment. His father fired the fatal shot, but when the Captain shouted, ‘Oh, good shot, Bigglesworth! Great work!’ Biggles felt cheated. It washis tiger, not his father’s. But he had learned enough about that distant man to keep his feelings to himself.
    He also kept his feelings to himself a few weeks later when his father, with his habitual absence of emotion, calmly informed him that he had a week to pack up his belongings. He was off to England to the boarding school where his brother Charles had been.
    This was a moment of profound unhappiness for Biggles. Much as he longed to travel, he could feel nothing but despair at the idea of exchanging the freedom of Garhwal for a boarding school in that far-off island with its cold, fog, and icy seas. With Charles now at Sandhurst, he would be absolutely on his own — no Sula Dowla he could take on expeditions