NINTH NIGHT
THE STORY OF UNT, THE CAMEL
The clink of a loose chain; the complaining wail of a swinging iron door; the squeak of a key turning an unwilling lock—a heavy-bolted lock; a flutter of wings; the crunch of giant feet on the echoing gravel; huge forms slipping through the moonlight, like prehistoric monsters; a slim, ribbon-like body gliding noiselessly over the grass cushion of the Park's sward; muffled laughter, bird calls and a remonstrative grunt from Wild Boar; the merry chatter of Magh the Orang; a guarded "Phrut-t-t, Phrut-t-t" from Hathi, the huge Elephant—ah, yes, all these; surely it was the gathering of old friends, who, like the listeners of the Arabian Night's tales, had for many evenings talked of their Jungle life in front of Black Panther's cage.
"You are all welcome," growled Pardus.
Magh hopped on the end of Hathi's trunk, and the latter lifted her gracefully to a seat on his broad forehead. She had Blitz, the Fox Terrier, with her. "You will hear some lies to-night, Pup," she confided to him. "But who is to talk?" she asked suddenly; "Chee-he! Sa'-zada, our good Keeper, who's to talk?"
"Camel is to tell us of his life," answered the Keeper.
"That stupid creature, who is too lazy to brace up and look spry, talk to us? Next we know we'll have a tale from Turtle."
"That's it," sneered Boar, "if one is honest and a plodder like Unt, bandy-legged creatures like Magh will call him stupid."
Unt, with a bubbling grunt, knelt down, doubled his hind legs under him like a jack-knife, made himself comfortable, and commenced his personal history.