In about a quarter of an hour a dense smoke rose sullenly in the moonlit air. The natives were firing the grass in order to smoke the elephant from his cover. Then arose the yells and shouts of the beaters as they advanced through the scrub, waving their torches and gesticulating like demons.
Above the uproar rose the loud bellowing of the now infuriated animal. Nearer and nearer came the sound, until above the waving grass appeared a dark grey mountain of flesh—one of the biggest bull elephants that Colonel Narfield had ever seen.
Clear of the scrub, the huge beast paused irresolutely. Then he caught sight of the Colonel standing in the open with his rifle held at the ready. It was a mute challenge, and the elephant promptly picked up the gage.
Bellowing furiously and waving his trunk in the air, the ponderous animal charged. To the watchers in the tree it seemed incredible that such a heavily-built brute could move at such a pace as it did.
They had previously imagined an elephant to be a slow-moving beast, with an average speed of five miles an hour. This one was charging at a pace equal at least to that of a trotting horse.
Colonel Narfield waited until the elephant was sixty yards away. Then slowly and deliberately raising his rifle to his shoulder, he pressed the trigger.
An involuntary cry burst from Colin's lips as his quick ear caught the sound of a faint click. The cartridge was a "dud"—a defective one.
In a trice the Colonel ejected the cartridge and replaced it with another. The elephant was now but thirty yards away. Again the striker clicked ineffectively.
Realising that his one chance lay in seeking flight—for there was not time to place a third cartridge into the breech and fire—Colonel Narfield threw aside the now useless weapon and took to his heels. Before he had covered half a dozen yards his foot caught in a trailing tendril, and he crashed heavily on the ground.