“Nice for the sweep,” remarked the Camel.
“Oh, you really are stupid,” exclaimed Coppertop. “You don’t understand. It’s not that kind of a sweep. It’s a——”
But before she could utter another word the roar of a rapidly approaching gale drowned all further utterance. The trees of the jungle were bent nearly double, and the next moment the East Wind rushed upon them in a fury, blowing Tibbs helplessly along in front.
The poor boy felt so small at this indignity, that he quickly became so, and running off, hid himself behind a stone by the roadside.
“Where is the creature who has ruined my beautiful Taj Mahal?” roared the East Wind, in a voice of seven hurricanes.
“Where is the Goth who has done this deed?
I will blow him off the earth!
I will grind him to the dust!
The Ganges shall lift its head like a hooded snake, and drown him!
He shall be whirled in a hurricane to the highest peak of the Himalayas and left there to freeze!”