The crash was of a falling mud-brick wall, pushed outward by the shoulders
of a pachyderm that wanted alcohol. The beast had had it out of all
sorts of containers and knew the trick of emptying the last drop. The
jorum was about his usual dose.

About two minutes later, while Dick and Tom Tripe between them held
a horse in intolerable durance between the shafts, and Tom's horse
out of sympathy kicked out at random into every shadow he could reach,
the door and part of the wall of Tom's shed fell outward into the pitch
dark street as Akbar, eleven feet four inches at the shoulder, strode
forward conjecturing what worlds were yet to conquer. The other elephants
stood motionless at their pickets. A terrified mahout emerged through
the debris like a devil from bell's bunkers, calling to his elephant all the
endearing epithets he knew, and cursing him alternately. The horses
grew calmer and submitted to caresses, like children and all creatures
that have intimate contact with strong men; and presently the night grew still.

"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