Tom’s horse dozed in the rough shed, being used to elephants.

Dick got up once or twice to peer through the window at the brutes.

“Are they tethered fore and aft?” he wondered.

“No,” Tom answered.  “One hind foot only.”

“What’s to stop them from turning round and breaking down this rotten wall?”

“Nothing—­except that they’re elephants.  They could break their picket chains if they were minded to, same as I could break Gungadhura’s head and lose my job.  But I won’t do it, and nor will they.  They’re elephants, and I’m a soldier.  The trouble with you is nerves, my boy.  Have some brandy.  You’re worried about your wife, but I tell you she’s right as a trivet.  I’d trust my last chance with that little princess.  I’ve done it often.  Brandy’s the stuff to keep your hair on.  Have some.”

The bottle had only been three parts full.  Tom poured out the last of it and set a stone jorum of rum in readiness on the table over against the wall.

“Wish we had hot water handy,” he grumbled.

“Which of the elephants are tethered here?” asked Dick.  “That big one that killed a tiger in the arena the other day?”

“Yes.  Did you see that?  Akbar was scarcely scratched.  Quickest thing ever I saw—­squealed with rage the minute they turned ‘stripes’ loose—­chased him to the wall—­downed him with a forefoot and crushed him into tiger jelly before you could say British Constitution!”

“I guess that tiger had been kept in a cage too long,” said Dick.

“Don’t you believe it.  He was fighting fit.  But they’d given old Akbar a skinfull of rum, and that turns him into a holy terror.  He’s quite quiet other times.”

Dick looked at his watch.  Tess had been in the palace about three hours, and he was confident she would come away as soon as possible, if for no other reason than to put an end to his anxiety.  She was likely to appear at the gate at any minute.  At any minute Tom Tripe was likely to attack the jorum, and if present symptoms went for anything, it would not take much of it to make him worse than useless.  At present he was growing reminiscent.

“Once old Akbar had a belly-ache and they gave him arrak.  They didn’t catch him for two days!  He pulled up his picket-stake and lit out for the horizon, chasing dogs and hens and monkeys and anything else be could find that annoyed him.  Screamed like a locomotive.  Horrid sight!”

“Where does this road outside lead to?” asked Dick.

“Don’t lead anywhere.  Blind alley.  Why?”

“Oh, nothing.”

Dick was examining the wall between the shed they sat in and the stable-place next door.  It was much stronger than the mud affair between them and the elephants.  Tom Tripe had nearly finished his tumbler-full, and there was madness in the air that night that made a man take awfully long chances.

“Do you suppose a man could lose his way in the dark between here and the palace gate?”