by Mark Twain
[Left out of A Tramp Abroad, because it was feared
that some of the particulars had been exaggerated,
and that others were not true. Before these
suspicions had been proven groundless, the book had
gone to press. —M. T.]
The following curious history was related to me by
a chance railway acquaintance. He was a gentleman
more than seventy years of age, and his thoroughly
good and gentle face and earnest and sincere manner
imprinted the unmistakable stamp of truth upon every
statement which fell from his lips. He said:
You know in what reverence the royal white elephant
of Siam is held by the people of that country.
You know it is sacred to kings, only kings may possess
it, and that it is, indeed, in a measure even superior
to kings, since it receives not merely honor but worship.
Very well; five years ago, when the troubles concerning
the frontier line arose between Great Britain and
Siam, it was presently manifest that Siam had been
in the wrong. Therefore every reparation was
quickly made, and the British representative stated
that he was satisfied and the past should be forgotten.
This greatly relieved the King of Siam, and partly
as a token of gratitude, partly also, perhaps, to
wipe out any little remaining vestige of unpleasantness
which England might feel toward him, he wished to
send the Queen a present—the sole sure way
of propitiating an enemy, according to Oriental ideas.
This present ought not only to be a royal one, but
transcendently royal. Wherefore, what offering
could be so meet as that of a white elephant?
My position in the Indian civil service was such
that I was deemed peculiarly worthy of the honor of
conveying the present to her Majesty. A ship
was fitted out for me and my servants and the officers
and attendants of the elephant, and in due time I arrived
in New York harbor and placed my royal charge in admirable
quarters in Jersey City. It was necessary to
remain awhile in order to recruit the animal’s
health before resuming the voyage.
All went well during a fortnight—then my
calamities began. The white elephant was stolen!
I was called up at dead of night and informed of
this fearful misfortune. For some moments I was
beside myself with terror and anxiety; I was helpless.
Then I grew calmer and collected my faculties.
I soon saw my course—for, indeed, there
was but the one course for an intelligent man to pursue.
Late as it was, I flew to New York and got a policeman
to conduct me to the headquarters of the detective
force. Fortunately I arrived in time, though
the chief of the force, the celebrated Inspector Blunt
was just on the point of leaving for his home.
He was a man of middle size and compact frame, and
when he was thinking deeply he had a way of kniting
his brows and tapping his forehead reflectively with
his finger, which impressed you at once with the conviction
that you stood in the presence of a person of no common
order. The very sight of him gave me confidence
and made me hopeful. I stated my errand.
It did not flurry him in the least; it had no more
visible effect upon his iron self-possession than if
I had told him somebody had stolen my dog. He
motioned me to a seat, and said, calmly:
