"Yes, sir," replied the man, touching the peak of his cap in a military salute.
"Do you think you could manage him?" continued Scarsdale, indicating the elephant, which, wearied with the morning's exertions, had knelt down, and seemed on the point of taking a nap.
"Do I think as 'ow I could manage 'im? I should 'ope so, if I ain't fergot is 'eathen language, sir."
"I'll give you eighteen pence a mile," said Scarsdale, quick to act on the man's decision.
"Make it two bob, sir, an' I'll ride 'im ter Inja."
"That's too far," he replied, laughing; "my pocket wouldn't stand the strain; but I'll give you the price to Christchurch."
"Right you are," replied the hostler, closing the bargain at once. "Me name's Tom Ropes. What d'yer call 'im, sir?" pointing to his recumbent charge.
"I don't know what he was christened. I call him Jehoshaphat."
"A Christian name fer a 'eathen brute," commented Tom. "Give me a leg up, one er yer."
Once astride the beast's neck, with Scarsdale's cane as an improvised ankus, he poured out a flood of cockney-Indian jargon which no Hindoo could ever have recognised as his native tongue, but which evidently had a familiar sound to the elephant, who proceeded to rise, first with his fore feet and then with his hind feet; after which his novel mahout, who throughout these manœuvres had retained a precarious hold by one ear, hastened to seat himself more firmly upon him.