One of the most absurd parts of the performance was the perfectly cool way in which the men paddled about all over it, their feet seeming to hold on well to the grey, indiarubber-like surface, and the elephant evidently approving of the whole business.
Dick stood watching the scrubbing, deluging with water, and re-scrubbing and showering till one side was done, and then stood as close up as he could without getting wet, when the order was given for the great brute to change sides, which it did by rolling itself over, the others following suit, and patiently waiting for the other flank to be done.
“Morning, sir,” said a voice behind, and Dick started round to see the sergeant had followed him.
“Morning. It’s not time yet, is it?”
“Wants about ten minutes, sir. I was on my way, but I saw you through the gateway.”
“I didn’t know this was done. Are these gun-elephants?”
“Yes, sir. Oh, yes, it’s done regularly: keeps them beautifully clean.”
“They seem to like it.”
“Oh, yes, sir; they grant and enjoy it like pigs being scratched. You see, they’re a deal worried by flies and things which lay their eggs in their tender parts behind the ears and under their arms.”
“Their arms?”