“D’you suppose that brute swiped my liquor?” wondered Tom Tripe. 
        “You mind the horses while I look.”

But suddenly there was a savage noise of trumpeting up-street, followed by a bark and a yelp of canine terror.

“God!” swore Tom.  “That’s Trotters coming to fetch us!  Akbar’s chasing him back this way!  Hang on to the horse like ten men!  I’ll go see!”

He was outside before Dick could remonstrate.  Between them they had lashed the dog-cart wheels during the first panic, but even so Dick had his hands full, as the trumpeting drew nearer and the horse went into agonies of senseless fear.  It was a fight, nothing less, between thinking man and mere instinctive beast, and eventually Dick threw him with a trick of the reins about his legs, and knelt on his head to keep him down.  By the grace of the powers of unexpectedness neither shafts nor harness broke.

Outside in the darkness Tom Tripe peered through brandied eyes at a great shadow that hunted to and fro a hundred yards away, chasing something that was quite invisible, and making enough noise about it to awake the dead.

“Trotters!” he yelled.  “Trotters!”

A moment later a smaller shadow came into view at top speed, panting, chased hotly by the bigger one.

“Trotters!  Get back where you came from!  Back, d’ye hear me!  Back!”

Within ten yards of his master the dog stopped to do his thinking, and the elephant screamed with a sort of hunter’s ecstasy as he closed on him with a rush.  But thought is swift, and obedience good judgment.  The dog doubled of a sudden between Akbar’s legs and the elephant slid on his rump in the futile effort to turn after him—­then crashed into the wall opposite Tripe’s dismantled shed—­cannoned off it with a grunt of sheer disgust—­and set off up-street, once more in hot pursuit.

“That brute got my good rum, damn him!” said Tom, opening the stable door.  “Hello!  Horse down?  Any harm done?  Right-oh!  We’ll soon have him up again.  Better hurry now—­Trotters came for us.”

Chapter Nine

So many look at the color,
So many study design,
Some of ’em squint through a microscope
To judge if the texture is fine. 
A few give a thought to the price of the stuff,
Some feel of the heft in the hand,
But once in a while there is one who can smile
And—­appraising the lot—­understand. 
Look out,
When the seemingly sold understand! 
All’s planned,
For the cook of the stew to be canned
Out o’ hand,
When the due to be choused understand!

“It means, the toils are closing in on Gungadhura!”

Within the palace Tess was reveling in vaudeville In the first place, Yasmini had no Western views on modesty.  Whatever her mother may have taught her in that respect had gone the way of all the other handicaps she saw fit to throw into the discard, or to retain for use solely when she saw there was advantage.  The East uses dress for ornament, and understands its use.  The veil is for places where men might look with too bold eyes and covet.  Out of sight of privileged men prudery has no place, and almost no advocates all the way from Peshawar to Cape Comorin.