“Horns?” grunted the Moose; “but they grow from your mouth. Odd; most peculiar, I say.”
“Oomp, oomp; most peculiar.” The Mammoth’s tone and manner now reeked with biting sarcasm. “So you think that my horns should grow from somewhere else; out of my back perhaps or possibly from my heels like lark’s spurs. What would you suggest? I am willing to please anybody within reason.”
The Moose began to feel ridiculous. His pride was hurt. “But they should grow up, not down,” he protested sullenly.
“Indeed! What do the rest of you think about it?” demanded the shaggy giant as he glanced along the rows of curious faces. “Up or down; down or up? Which is proper? My horns grow down then up again, so I am right, either way. But I mean to be reasonable and listen. Can anybody answer?”
None appeared to have enough wits left to give an answer. The Mammoth gazed blandly at the sea of upturned faces before him and resumed:
“Now that everybody is satisfied, I will take my proper place among you. Next comes the choice of my assistant. What is it now, old Bramble-head?” he bellowed at the Moose who showed symptoms of wishing to start an argument. “Would you expect me to manage your affairs alone? I need help. Who will dispute that?”
He looked so huge, stern and overpowering, that several high-strung spirits who were pawing the ground and gathering courage to protest, decided to wait. All stood at attention. The Mammoth paused for a moment to impress them with the importance of what he was about to say.
“My friends,” he began in low deep tones, which grew louder and more dramatic as he proceeded. “Fellow Moo Hooes; People with the split feet; I will now choose as my chief helper, the most famous warrior in all Tundr. His skill, courage and other noble qualities have won the esteem of every creature that creeps or runs. His strength——”
“But who is he? Tell us,” cried a score of impatient voices.