Rainsford ran through the still, dark night. Beads of
perspiration began to form on his pounding forehead, the
suffocating humidity rampant in the jungle air. How had all
this happened?
"If I had not been so obsessed with my godforsaken pipe," he
thought, "Then none of this would be happening, and I would
be resting peacefully in Rio, or hunting jaguars." As he
tried to speed up, he suddenly thought of a brilliant plan.
He stopped and began to dig an enormous hole. When the size
satisfied him, he used his knife to sharpen a few dull
stakes of wood. He planted them in the bottom of the hole,
and began to cover the top with grass, leaves and roots. He
gave it a final check to confirm its camouflage, then
quickly made haste and sought cover under some rough palm
trees. There he stood, in hopes of the General losing his
footing and meeting a sharp end. . .

An hour passed. Suddenly, Rainsford heard the padding of
footsteps on the dirt path. He couldn't see what was going
on, and had to guess from sound. He listened intently until
he heard the snapping of twigs and brushing of leaves, and
finally the dying squeal of something being impaled upon the
wooden stakes. He quickly leaped out to claim his victory,
but to his surprise, he saw the General standing there in
wait. He quickly jumped back to his hiding place and watched
the General through the silky veil of night.
"Congratulations, Rainsford", alleged Zaroff. "Your Burmese
tiger pit has claimed the life of one of my best dogs. You
have won this round Rainsford, but I'll be back tomorrow."
That, thought Rainsford, had been close. "Only one more
night," he pondered. "One more night."