e could pass at a time, and the whole swarm jammed
between it and us like sticks in front of a drain.

And not even Akbar's strength was so great that he could shove them
through, so the ancient problem of an irresistible force in contact with
an immovable object was presented, and solved by Akbar after a fashion
of his own.

He picked the softest spot, which was a wain-load of cotton bales, and
upset it, cannoning off that cushion so swiftly as to come within an ace
of scattering his four passengers across the landscape; and discerning,
with a swift strategic eye that would have done credit to the dashingest
cavalry general, that that rout was complete and nothing could be gained
by adding to it, he headed for the river and the women's bathing place,
took the broad stone steps at a dead run, and plunged straight in.

No ship was ever launched with more perfect aplomb, nor floated more
superbly on an even keel than did Akbar at the women's bathing ghat. For
a moment I thought he proposed to lie down there and finish his
interrupted toilet, but he contented himself with squirting water on the
sore spot caused by the thumping _ankus_ of the driver's and set out to
swim upstream.

It was not until he had reached the second ghat and climbed the steps
there that Akbar put himself in Napoleon's class. When he reached the
top of the steps no amount of whacking with the _ankus_ could make him
turn to the right and follow the city street. He turned to the left,
tooted a couple of wild hurrahs through his newly wetted whistle, and
raced to meet the traffic as it struggled through the gate in single
file!

There was ruin ripe for harvest and it looked like the proper time to
jump. But suddenly--with that delightful wheeled panic at his mercy, the
big brute stopped, stood still and looked at them, muttering and
gurgling to himself. Instantly the mahout began petting him, calling him
endearing names and praising his wisdom and discretion. I can't swear
that the beast understood what was said to him, but he acted exactly as
if he did. He picked up dust from the street with his trunk, blew a
little of it in the general direction of the defeated enemy, blew a
little more on himself, and turned his rump toward the gate, as if to
signify that hostilities were over!

As he did that, a man who was something of an athlete swung himself up
on the off-side footboard, and a second later the proud face of the Gray
Mahatma confronted me a