The scene is a pub in London. It’s a quiet Thursday afternoon. A young journalist walks in, orders a beer and idly glances around the bar. Sitting in a corner, reading a newspaper and smoking a pipe, is a distinguished looking elderly gent with a distinctly military air about him. The journo realizes that there’s something vaguely familiar about the old boy. He searches his memory and then it clicks.

He walks over to the corner. “Excuse me for disturbing you, sir,” he says “but aren’t you General Arbuthnot de Vere Tollemache Farcquarson VC, formerly of the Indian Army?”

“Gratifying to be recognized after all these years.” says the old soldier. “Pull up a chair and have a drink, m’boy.”

The journo is a happy man. He’s been looking for a story for days with no success and now he has run into a genuine hero from the days of the British Raj. There has to be a human interest angle in this one. They sit and chat over a couple of whisky and sodas. Finally, the journo says:

“You had a remarkable military career, General. You fought in some famous actions. Was there ever a time when you were genuinely frightened?”

“Oh yes, laddie, many times. But there was one occasion that I remember as if it were yesterday. It was when I was a young subaltern up on the North-West frontier for the first time. I’d taken m’squadron out on patrol up into the Khyber Pass. We came across a band of Pathan. Handy lads with a rifle they were. Fierce fighters in those days. Understand they make damn’ fine squash players nowadays. Anyway, we had a pretty good skirmish with them and I became separated from the squadron. I was making m’way back to camp alone and my damn’ horse cast a shoe. So there I was, on foot, leading him by the reins through some difficult country. I was coming down a short gully when out from behind a rock stepped the biggest Bengal Tiger I’ve ever seen. Huge beast! Must have been eight feet long from nose to tail! He stared at me and I stared back. Here’s a tip. Always look ‘em right in the eye and don’t blink! I was reachin’ slowly for my revolver when he reared up in front of me and roared! Like this: WAAAUUGH!!”

The general demonstrated, shooting to his feet with his hands in the air and roaring loudly. He sank back into his chair, took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow.

“I fouled me britches!” he gasped.

“I’m not surprised, sir” said the young reporter. “You must have been terrified!”

“No, no, not then” said the general. “Just now, when I went WAAAUUGH!!”