I had met the peacock and his wives leisurely sauntering home after a night of pillage in the grain fields. I had seen, in a sunny glade, a wild dog playing with her puppies. I had watched the big rohu turning lazily over in the river; the sly grey alligator lying log-like on the bank; the blue-bull, or nilgai, dashing through the undergrowth. In short, I had seen a good deal, though I _was_ dull. Twice a day I visited my dear friend Shere Bahadur. I had become quite attached to him, and I firmly believe that he loved me devotedly. One evening I arrived rather earlier than usual on my rounds, and discovered the mahout in deep converse with another man, a stranger, who brought his visit to an abrupt close, and said, as he hurried away, “Teen Roze” (_i.e._ “three days”), to which the mahout responded, “Bahout Atcha” (_i.e._ “good”). “It is my Bhai,” he explained. Every one seems to be every one else’s brother, especially suspicious-looking acquaintances. “He has come a long journey with a message from my father--my father plenty sick, calling for me.” An every-day excuse for “taking leave,” only second to the death of the delinquent’s grandmother. On the afternoon of the third day we found it too hot to go out early, and were sitting in our dining-room tent fanning ourselves vigorously and playing “spoof,” when we suddenly heard a great commotion--a sound of shouting and running and trumpeting. A tiger, or a “must” elephant, was my first idea. Yes, there it was! A cry of “The elephant! the elephant!” It was an elephant--_my_ elephant. We hurried to where a crowd of all our retainers had collected. A quarter of a mile away there was a sudden dip in the ground, a half-dried-up pool of water, covered with a glaze of dark blue scum, surrounded by an expanse of black oozy mud, fringed with rushes and great water-reeds,--the sort of place that was the sure haunt of malarious fever--and struggling in the midst of the quagmire was Shere Bahadur. He had already sunk up to his shoulders, whilst his mahout lay on the bank tearing his hair, beating his head upon the ground, and shrieking at intervals, “My life is departing! my life is departing!” Tom angrily ordered him to arise, and get to his place on the animal’s back, and endeavour to guide him out at the safest part; but it appeared to be all quagmire, and quivered for yards at every movement of the elephant. The mahout gibbered, and sobbed, but complied. He scrambled on to Shere Bahadur’s neck, and yelled, gesticulated, urged, and goaded. No need; the poor brute was aware of the danger--he was labouring now, not for other people’s profit or pleasure, but for his own life. Every one ran for wood, wine-cases, or branches, and flung them to the elephant; and it was pitiful to see how eagerly he snatched at them, and placed them beneath him, and endeavoured to build himself a foothold. After long and truly desperate exertions, he got his forelegs right up on the sound