“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Morris. At least it was supposed to be a laugh; but the sounds were very peculiar, and he looked strangely white as he shouted, “Stop, boys, stop! What are you afraid of? It was only one of those carter fellows who cracked his whip.—Well, my man,” he continued, in a husky voice that did not seem like his own, to one of the van-drivers who now appeared in the opening, “have you caught the elephant?”
As the man replied the boys began to collect again from their ignominious flight, and it was observable that they were all laughing at one another in an accusatory manner, each feeling full of contempt for the pusillanimous behaviour of the others, while the looks of Morris might have given the whole party a conscious sting.
But there was the van-driver answering as the boys clustered hurriedly up.
“No, sir, and I’ve had enough of it,” said the man. “It aren’t my business. I’m monkeys, I am; and got enough to do to keep they mischievous imps in their cage. I don’t hold with elephants; they are too big for me, and I know that chap of old.”
“Indeed!” said Morris, eager to cover his last retreat by drawing the man into conversation.
“Yes, sir, he’s a treacherous beggar. Pretends to be fond of a man, and gets him up against a wall or the side of a tree, and then plays pussy cat.”
“Plays what?” cried Slegge.
“Pussy cat, sir. You know: rubs hisself up again’ a man same as a kitten does against your leg. But it aren’t the same, because if the pore chap don’t dodge him he gets rubbed out like a nought on the slate.”
“Dear me! Extraordinary!” said Morris. “But—er—er—where is the fugitive beast now?”
“Ah, you may well call him a fugity beast, sir. I don’t quite know what it means; but that’s a good name for him, and he desarves it. Oh, he’s over yonder now, right in the middle of yon orchard, and nobody durst go near him. Every time any one makes a start he begins to roosh, and then goes back in amongst the trees, and when I come away I never see anything like it in my life. It was bushels then.”