“It is well!” said Yasmini.  “This night began in hunger, like the young moon.  Now is laughter without malice.  In a few hours will be bright dawn—­and after that, success!”

Chapter Eight

An Elephant Interlude

Watch your step where the elephants sway
Each at a chain at the end of a day,
Hurrumdi-didddlidi-um-di-ay! 
Nothing to do but rock and swing,
Clanking an iron picket ring,
Plucking the dust to flirt and fling;
Keep et ceteras out of range,
Anything out of the way or strange
Suits us elephant folk for change —
Various odds and ends appeal
To liven the round of work and meal. 
Curious trunks can reach and steal! 
Fool with Two-tails if you dare;
Help yourself.  But fool, beware! 
Whatever results is your affair! 
We are the easiest beasts that be,
Gentle and good and affectionate we,
You are the monarchs; we bow the knee,
Big and obese and obedient—­um! 
Just as long as it suits us—­um! 
Hurrumti-tiddli-di-um-ti-um!

(Unfortunately at this point Akbar’s attention was diverted to another matter, so the rest of his picket-song goes unrecorded.)

“They’re elephants and I’m a soldier.  The trouble with you is nerves, my boy!”

There was brandy in the place that Tom Tripe knew of—­brandy and tobacco and a smell of elephants.  Dick Blaine, who scarcely ever touched strong liquor, having had intimate acquaintance with abuse of it in Western mining camps, had to sit and endure the spectacle of Tom’s chief weakness, glass after glass of the fiery stuff descending into a stomach long since rendered insatiable by soldiering on peppery food in a climate that is no man’s friend.  He protested a dozen times.

“We may need our wits tonight, Tom.  Suppose we both keep sober.”

“Man alive, I’ve been doing this for years.  Brandy and brains are the same in my case.  Keep me without it, and by bedtime I’m an invalid.  Give me all I want of it, and I’m a crafty soldier-man.”

Dick Blaine refilled his pipe and watched for an opportunity.  He had heard that kind of argument before, and had conquered flood and fire with the aid of the very men who used it, that being the gift (or whatever you like to call it) that had made him independent while the others drew monthly pay in envelopes.

It was a low oblong shed they sat in, with a wide door opening on a side street within four hundred yards of Yasmini’s palace gate.  It was furnished with a table, two chairs and a cot for Tom Tripe’s special use whenever the maharajah’s business should happen to keep him on night duty, his own proper quarters being nearly a mile away.  Alongside the shed was a very rough stable that would accommodate a horse or two, and the back wall was a mere partition of mud brick, behind which, under a thatched roof, were tethered some of the maharajah’s elephants.  There were two windows in the wall, through which one could see dimly the great brutes’ rumps as they swayed at their pickets restlessly.  The smell came through a broken pane, and every once in a while the Blaines’ horse, standing ready in the shafts outside with a blanket over him, squealed at it indignantly.