But there was no need for a second shot from his rifle. The giant bull-elephant was stone-dead.
Meanwhile Desmond had gained the ground. The two chums went to assist the Colonel, who was sitting up and regarding the dead elephant with the amazement arising from the fact that he, who had expected to be trampled to death, was alive, although not exactly kicking, while the enormous quadruped had for some inexplicable reason been stopped within an ace of success.
"Hurt, sir?" inquired Tiny.
"Ankle," replied Colonel Narfield laconically. Then he gazed first at the dead elephant and then at his rifle, lying thirty or forty yards away.
"Never let me down before," he continued, addressing his remarks to himself rather than to his companions. "Two miss-fires in succession. Wait till I write to the scoundrels who sold me that ammunition, by Jove! Where's Van der Wyck?"
"He's not back yet," replied Colin. "He went round the patch of scrub to see if the beaters had started one of the other elephants."
"Not back?" exclaimed the Colonel. "Then who, in the name of fortune, killed the brute?"
"We both fired," replied Colin.
"And brought the brute down with an ordinary .303 bullet? Incredible!" declared Colonel Narfield, emphatically. "Bear a hand, lads. I haven't broken my ankle. It's only sprained, which is a jolly sight better than being squashed to a pulp. No, don't touch the boot and legging; if you do, I won't be able to get them on again in a hurry. Prop me up against that tree and fetch my rifle, please. I'm anxious to know what's wrong with that ammunition. If you see the first cartridge I ejected, bring that along, too."
Colin went to fetch the rifle. He took particular pains to keep a respectable distance from the dead elephant. In the slanting rays of the moon it looked more tremendous than ever.