Now ears were distending. Piglike eyes were rolling in their too small sockets. Heavy skins were beginning to wrinkle.
At last there came a call from Shorty, the head keeper, and the elephant men gave up their task. “Don’t try to break up that line. If they won’t stop let ’em go. These bulls’ll break at the first rough-house. Stand by to tail ’em down!”
Into position shot the assistants, each ready to dig his spurs into his horse at the first sign of a break. Far ahead went Shorty, taking his position just behind the gigantic trembling Mary, bearing the Ten Thousand Dollar Queen of the Harem at the head of the section, a harem beauty who, incidentally, just at that moment wished she was back in Coshocton; in fact, anywhere except in that bobbing howdah. Leader Mary was beginning to shimmy slightly with increased fright, and her shuffle on the hot asphalt carried a new wiggle of impending danger. Then the marching three hundred broke into a weird class yell, and the stampede began.
Straight forward went Leader Mary, to scrape a lion’s cage, to swerve slightly to one side, then, with the Ten Thousand Dollar Queen of the Harem squawking aimlessly in the howdah, to lead off in a wild scramble straight down the street, with the rest of the herd smashing along in her rear. Then it was that the preparations of Shorty, the keeper of the bulls, went into execution.
At the first move of the elephant section the horses of keepers moved also—into a furious pace, for the speed of an elephant is a deceptive thing, and it is a good horse that can keep abreast of him, once he unlimbers into full steam ahead. The stamping college men were left behind now; even the front section of the parade with its suddenly hushed band and blank-faced clowns was passed almost in an instant. Out of them all only the Ten Thousand Dollar Queen of the Harem was left, still bouncing in her howdah, still squealing and squawking, while, spurs deep in their horses, the elephant men strove their best to keep abreast of the fast-traveling bull section, echoing and reëchoing the shout of Shorty at the head of the line:
“Hi there! Mule up! Mule up there, Mary! Frieda—Frenchy—Sultan—tails! Tails there—tails!”
It was a double command, which traveled along the line and back again as fast as men could voice it, the order to run, and at the same time for each elephant to grasp the tail of the beast before him. Blocks passed while throats grew hoarse, and while the thick-packed throngs of the curbings stared vacuously, wondering why the circus should be in such a hurry to get its elephants out of the line of march.
But never a warning sounded, never a hint that a panic was in progress; only that repeated and re-repeated command:
“Tails there! Mule up, you! Tails—tails!” All of it meant an experiment in elephant psychology, and one that had been tried many times before. At last the command sank in. The second elephant of the line grasped the tail of Leader Mary and continued to run. The third elephant obeyed; the fourth, the fifth, and on through the whole section.
But the command continued: