of it, which was not pleasant for him, and less so for the elephant.

Now came a truce of some minutes, during which the elephant put forth
screaming challenges, but kept at a distance, and allowed Arstingstall
to reach the bunks beside the monkeys' cages. From the topmost bunk
opened a trap-door in the car roof, the only exit, as the sliding
side-doors were bolted. He might escape here to the back of the train,
but that would leave a mad elephant in possession of the car, a thing
not to be thought of. Thus far the elephant's rage had been directed
solely against his keeper, but, the keeper gone, he might turn to
destroying the other animals, might kill the sacred bull, or smash open
the lions' cages--there was no telling what he might do. Arstingstall
saw that his duty lay in that car. Whatever came, he must--

Crash! came the elephant again, and the lower berth was a wreck. And now
the din became infernal with the roaring and bellowing and chattering of
the other animals. Arstingstall did some quick thinking. There was sure
death before him, unless he could somehow conquer this frenzied
creature, whose rushes, coming harder and harder, must soon batter down
the car, for all its stout oak timbers. Oh, for a weapon, a prod of some
sort, a--like a flash the thought came; down at the other end was the
pitchfork used for throwing fodder. There was his chance; he must get
that pitchfork.

For the next hour it was a fight, man against elephant, for the winning
and holding of that pitchfork. There was the whole story, and some day I
hope to give its details, the moves and counter-moves, the strategy of
brute against human, the conflict of brain against crude force.
Arstingstall won, but by what patience and quiet nerve he alone knows.
Foot by foot, cage by cage, he worked his way down the length of that
car, the elephant now on the defensive, one would say, as if he realized
what was planning, the man watching, resolute, biding his time, ready
for a sudden rush, forced now and again to use his teeth upon that
murderous trunk.

Finally, he got the pitchfork, and for a moment--what a moment that
was!--held four prongs of flashing steel before the elephant's eyes,
red-burning, unsubmissive. It was all over now, the battle was won, the
animal knew, and stood still awaiting the blow. Down came the weapon,
and right through the trunk went those four sharp points, down into the
timbers under foot. Then Arstingstall braced the ha