“Although somewhat exhausted and shaken by his flight and the tremendous knock down, he fought viciously, and kept all his smaller foes at a respectful distance by repeated charges, until Chand Moorut again came up and laid him flat with another irresistible charge. He staggered to his feet again, however, and now the other fighting elephants, Raj Mungul, Isri Pershad, and others, were brought into action. These attacked the rogue furiously, knocking him down when he attempted to rise, and belabouring him with their trunks until he was thoroughly exhausted. Then one of the khedda men crept up behind him on foot, with thick ropes fitted for the purpose of tying him, and fixed them on the rogue’s hind legs. But the brave man paid heavily for his daring. He was still engaged with the ropes when the animal suddenly kicked out and broke the poor fellow’s thigh. He was quickly lifted up and taken to camp.
“Not so quickly, however, was the rogue taken to camp! As it was growing dark, some of us resolved to bivouac where the capture had been made, and tied our captive to a tree. Next morning we let him go with only a hind leg hobbled, so that he might find breakfast for himself. Then, having disposed of our own breakfast, we proceeded to induce our prisoner to go along with us—a dangerous and difficult operation. As long as he believed that he might go where he pleased, we could induce him to take a few steps, forward, but the moment he understood what we were driving at, he took the sulks, like an enormous spoilt child, and refused to move. The koonkies were therefore brought up, and Raj Mungul, going behind, gave him a shove that was irresistible. He lost temper and turned furiously on Raj, but received such an awful whack on the exposed flank from Isri Pershad, that he felt his case to be hopeless, and sulked again. Going down on his knees he stuck his tusks into the ground, like a sheet anchor, with a determination that expressed, ‘Move me out o’ this if you can!’
“Chand Moorut accepted the unspoken challenge. He gave the rogue a shove that not only raised his hind legs in the air, but caused him to stand on his head, and finally hurled him on his back. As he rose, doggedly, he received several admonitory punches, and advanced a few paces. Spearmen also were brought forward to prick him on, but they only induced him to curl his trunk round a friendly tree that came in his way, and hold on. Neither bumping, pricking, nor walloping had now any effect. He seemed to have anchored himself there for the remainder of his natural life by an unnatural attachment.
“In this extremity the khedda men had recourse to their last resource. They placed under him some native fireworks, specially prepared for such emergencies, and, as it were, blew him up moderately. Being thus surprised into letting go his hold of the tree, he was urged slowly forward as before. You see, we did not want to kill the beast, though he richly deserved death, having killed so many natives, besides keeping a whole neighbourhood in alarm for years. We were anxious to take him to camp, and we managed it at last, though the difficulty was almost superhuman, and may to some extent be conceived when I tell you that, although we spent the whole of that day, from dawn to sunset, struggling with our obstinate captive, and with the entire force of the khedda, we only advanced to the extent of four or five hundred yards!”
Now, while this amazing story was being told by Giles Jackman to his friends in Barret’s room, a very different story was being told in the room above them. That room was the nursery, and its only occupants were little Flo and her black doll. The rain had cleared off towards the afternoon, and a gleam of sunshine entering the nursery windows, had formed a spot of intense light on the nursery floor. This seemed to have suggested something of great interest to Flo, for, after gazing at it with bright eyes for some time, she suddenly held the doll before her and said—
“Blackie, I’m goin’ to tell you a stowy—a bustingly intewestin’ stowy.”
We must remind the reader here that Flo was naturally simple and sweet, and that as Junkie was her chief playmate, she was scarcely responsible for her language.
“The stowy,” continued Flo, “is all ’bout Doan of Ak, who was bu’nt by some naughty men, long, long ago! D’you hear, Blackie? It would make your hair stand on end—if you had any!”
Thereupon the little one set Blackie on a stool, propped her against the wall, and gave her a fairly correct account of the death of the unfortunate Joan of Arc, as related by Mrs Gordon that morning. She wound up with the question,—“Now, what you think of zat, Blackie?”
As Blackie would not answer, Flo had to draw on her own bank of imagination for further supplies of thought.