“Well, I do declare!” said Prose: “I thought cinnamon grew upon trees. Doctor, I should like to stay with you, for this beast does shake me so, I’m quite sore—and I’ve such a stitch in my side.”
Prose accordingly prepared to descend, and was recommended by the interpreter to slide down by the hind leg of the animal.
“He won’t kick, will he?”
“Elephant no kick, sar,” and Prose descended in safety, while the remainder of the party continued their excursion.
The doctor walked several times round the rock, to find a point upon which he would be able to make some impression with his implements; but the fragment, which had probably remained there since the deluge, without having been honoured by a visit from a naturalist, was worn quite smooth by time, and presented no acute angle, within reach, upon which his hammer could make any impression; nor could he climb it for it rose from its base in almost a perpendicular line. The more he scrutinised, the more anxious was he to obtain specimens, and he determined to blast the rock. Being prepared with a couple of short crowbars, and a flask of gunpowder, he fixed upon a corner, which appeared more assailable than the rest, and commenced his laborious occupation.
“Can I assist you, Mr Macallan?” inquired Prose.
“You can, indeed, Mr Prose. Now, observe; continue driving the end of the crowbar straight into this hole until you have made it about nine or ten inches deep; that will be sufficient. I will make another on the other side.”
Prose commenced his labour, and, for a few minutes, worked with due emphasis; but he soon found out that he had volunteered to a most fatiguing task. He stopped, at last, for want of breath.
“Well, Mr Prose,” inquired the doctor, from the other side of the rock, observing that he had ceased from his labour, “how do you get on?”
“I wish to Heaven I had never got off;” muttered Prose, “for this is worse than the elephant.”