over his shoulders, and he looking like a goblin in the torch-light.  And as soon as there was a lull you could hear his high-pitched yells of encouragement to Kala Nag, above the trumpeting and crashing, and snapping of ropes, and groans of the tethered elephants.  “Mael, mael, Kala Nag! (Go on, go on, Black Snake!) Dant do!  (Give him the tusk!) Somalo!  Somalo! (Careful, careful!) Maro!  Mar! (Hit him, hit him!) Mind the post!  Arre!  Arre!  Hai!  Yai!  Kya-a-ah!” he would shout, and the big fight between Kala Nag and the wild elephant would sway to and fro across the Keddah, and the old elephant catchers would wipe the sweat out of their eyes, and find time to nod to Little Toomai wriggling with joy on the top of the posts.

He did more than wriggle.  One night he slid down from the post and slipped in between the elephants and threw up the loose end of a rope, which had dropped, to a driver who was trying to get a purchase on the leg of a kicking young calf (calves always give more trouble than full-grown animals).  Kala Nag saw him, caught him in his trunk, and handed him up to Big Toomai, who slapped him then and there, and put him back on the post.

Next morning he gave him a scolding and said, “Are not good brick elephant lines and a little tent carrying enough, that thou must needs go elephant catching on thy own account, little worthless?  Now those foolish hunters, whose pay is less than my pay, have spoken to Petersen Sahib of the matter.”  Little Toomai was frightened.  He did not know much of white men, but Petersen Sahib was the greatest white man in the world to him.  He was the head of all the Keddah operations—­the man who caught all the elephants for the Government of India, and who knew more about the ways of elephants than any living man.

“What—­what will happen?” said Little Toomai.

“Happen!  The worst that can happen.  Petersen Sahib is a madman.  Else why should he go hunting these wild devils?  He may even require thee to be an elephant catcher, to sleep anywhere in these fever-filled jungles, and at last to be trampled to death in the Keddah.  It is well that this nonsense ends safely.  Next week the catching is over, and we of the plains are sent back to our stations.  Then we will march on smooth roads, and forget all this hunting.  But, son, I am angry that thou shouldst meddle in the business that belongs to these dirty Assamese jungle folk.  Kala Nag will obey none but me, so I must go with him into the Keddah, but he is only a fighting elephant, and he does not help to rope them.  So I sit at my ease, as befits a mahout,—­not a mere hunter,—­a mahout, I say, and a man who gets a pension at the end of his service.  Is the family of Toomai of the Elephants to be trodden underfoot in the dirt of a Keddah?  Bad one!  Wicked one!  Worthless son!  Go and wash Kala Nag and attend to his ears, and see that there are no thorns in his feet.  Or else Petersen Sahib will surely catch thee and make thee a wild hunter—­a follower of elephant’s foot tracks, a jungle bear.  Bah!  Shame!  Go!”