A laugh at his enthusiasm seemed to Junkie to endorse his sentiment, so he turned to Jackman and earnestly bade him to “go on.”
“There is not much to go on with now, my boy,” continued the narrator; “for Mowla Buksh being down, the fighting elephants took good care to punish him well before they let him up again. But as the encounter had aroused the combative propensities of Chand Moorut, it was thought wise to remove him from the scene before he became too excited. This being managed by his mahowt, the punishing of the rebel was left to Isri Pershad and Raj Mungul, who did their work thoroughly. No sooner did the culprit scramble out of the hollow than Isri Pershad knocked him back into it, and pummelled him heartily with trunk and legs. Again Mowla Buksh rose, and this time Raj Mungul gave him a tap on the forehead with his own ponderous head, which sent him into a bed of giant rushes, over the top of which his little tail was seen to wriggle viciously as he disappeared with a crash.
“There he would probably have been content to lie still for a time, but his opponents had other views in regard to him. They went at him together, and so cuffed, kicked, bumped and pummelled him, that in about five minutes he was reduced to a pitiable state of humiliation. As Quin truly remarked at the time, his own mother would have failed to recognise him.
“Just at this point, to my surprise, the old mahowt came forward, with tears in his eyes, and begged that his elephant might be spared! It had been punished quite sufficiently, he thought. I was much impressed with this display of a tender, forgiving spirit towards a brute that had done its very best to take his own life. But no one sympathised with him at the moment, and the punishment was continued until Mowla Buksh was thoroughly subdued, and compelled by his conquerors to return to his standing-place, where he was finally and firmly secured. Thus, at last, ended this exciting and most unexpected commencement to our hunt, and the whole camp was soon after steeped in silence and repose. Not a bad beginning, eh, Junkie?”
“Yes, but go on wi’ the hunt,” said the boy with eager promptitude, a request which was loudly echoed by his brothers.
“No, no, boys; you’ve had enough to digest for one day; besides, I see the cart coming up the road to fetch our deer. And perhaps your father has more work cut out for us.”
“Well, not much,” replied the laird, who had been quite as much interested in the elephant story as his sons. “There is another drive on the east side of the hill, which we have still time for, though I don’t expect much from it. However, we can try it. Come now, lads, we’ll be going.”
“Shames,” said Captain McPherson, as the party moved away from the lunching-ground, “I wonder if a good thrashin’ like that would make the elephant a better beast afterwards?”
“Weel now, Captain Mcphairson, I don’t think it would,” replied McGregor after a pause for consideration.
“You are right, Shames,” said Ian Anderson, the old fisherman, who was a deep-thinking man. “It has always appeared to me, that the object of poonishment, is a not to make us coot, but to make us obedient.”