"What's wrong with him?" Skag asked.
"I don't know; I'm always wondering. In the beginning—when I was little—but I don't believe it was—wrong."
The boy spoke haltingly, frowning; but went on:
"That's between Nut Kut and—Horace Dickson! I like him better than anything I know. The mahouts have tried every way to discourage me—yes, they have!"
"What does he do?" Skag questioned.
"You know Government does not permit elephant fighting," the boy began solemnly, "but—Nut Kut doesn't know it! His pet scheme is to break away out of his own stockades, if there are any elephants across the river—that's where the regiments camp—and get in among the military elephants. He's a frightful fighter."
"How do they handle him?" Skag asked.
"It takes more than two of their best males to do it—big trained fellows, you understand. Even then, usually, one of the great females comes with her chain—the kind they call 'mother-things'—she handles it with her trunk. Just one little flick across his ears and any fighter will be willing to stop—even Nut Kut. But it's to see, Skag Sahib; never twice the same—it can't be told."
A servant came in from the highway, salaaming before Horace and reporting that the tamasha would occur at the usual time this afternoon—afternoon; not evening.
"Then we'll have tea, at once!" Horace interrupted him. "Quick! tell the butler."