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With one furious cry of rage he did his best to turn, displaying a flexibility of body and limb which was quite astonishing in so clumsy an animal. Rolling on the ground and uttering more cries of rage, it suddenly occurred to him to ask the nice, little elephant to help him. But alas! the nice, little elephant, Kinka, was nowhere to be seen.
As a rule he sent several koomkies out together, but on this occasion he decided to send only one. This was Kinka, a gentle and tractable, little Indian elephant, who was well versed in the chase, and who was about as pretty and graceful as it is possible for a koomkie to be.
The mahout talked to her and patted her, and Kinka seemed to quite understand, nodding her head wisely, and touching his face and shoulders gently with the tip of her trunk. When he had finished and began to lead her out she made a quiet, little trumpeting noise, which signified how delighted she was to go. The mahout did not trouble himself about Kinka, once he had let her go.
And Kinka, when she knew that he was dead, was not even sorry. She only gave a triumphant little trumpeting as she thought of the triumph of her capture. And so no one grieved for Rataplan, no one cared or thought about him. But then we must not forget that he was and always had been Rataplan, the Rogue. A tall, stately, gentle creature, standing about eighteen feet high.
She knew her business and was about as deep and crafty as any mahout could wish. He selected his strongest little horse and followed her. Kinka went quietly and steadily through the forest, making straight for the place where Rataplan was still standing, moodily moving his head to and fro.
Soon Rataplan began to forget his hatred of company, his dislike of his fellow-creatures; he began even to forget his evil thoughts and his mad rage, and he was just beginning to think what a nice, little elephant Kinka was when he felt, sharp pulls at his feet. The next instant there was such a sudden pull on all his legs that, with a huge thud Rataplan found himself lying on the ground.
The third night the koomkies were brought out again, this time with Kinka at their head. But the sight of Kinka nearly drove Rataplan mad; he strained and tore at the ropes, trumpeting and roaring, until even the koomkies were frightened. Could he only have got at Kinka, he would have torn her limb from limb.
Rataplan's heart was not exactly melted, but he was evidently interested and touched by the delicate attentions, and he became a little less morose and a little less moody; he even moved out of the tangled mass of undergrowth in which he had been standing, and deigned to talk to her a little bit; and Kinka made herself just as interesting as she possibly could.
He did not care for society in any shape or form, not even the society of a koomkie, so he took no notice of her, but, after a few minutes' quiet contemplation, turned his head the other way. Kinka, however, was not to be daunted.
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