“I wonder ’ow many buns that’ll buy,” said the carter with interest.
“They must eat something else besides buns,” said Adrian plaintively. “You know, cabbages and things. Anyway, we’ll just have to experiment later.”
“Don’t you go fretting yourself, boy,” said Mr. Pucklehammer. “She can stay here for two or three days until you decide what’s best to be done. I’ll look after her.”
It was at this juncture that Rosy decided that the coffins—though fascinating in their way—were not sustaining enough. She approached the house and peered through the window. To her delight she discovered her friends gathered together in the room, consuming some of her favourite beverage. There was an air of relaxed conviviality, an air of good fellowship about the group, that Rosy found irresistible. It stimulated her. She was sure that they would want her to join them so she tapped delicately on the window with the tip of her trunk. It was a dainty, lady-like hint that she, too, would like to join in whatever celebrations were afoot. But her friends were so engrossed in their conversation that they did not notice. This, Rosy felt, was unfair. After all, she had had a long and tiring journey with only one pint of beer to sustain her, and there they were, guzzling away in the room without inviting her in. Normally, Rosy was an extremely patient elephant, but the sight of the carter pouring himself out yet another pint was too much for her. She inserted the tip of her trunk under the sash of the window and pulled. The entire window came away with a splendid crackling and tinkling noises and Rosy, delighted with the success of her experiment, put her trunk through the window and trumpeted loudly.
“For God’s sake,” exclaimed Adrian, his nerves completely shattered, “give her some more beer, Mr. Pucklehammer, and shut her up.”
“At this rate,” said the carter helpfully, “you’ll be spending most of your five ’undred quid on beer and repairs.’’
Mr. Pucklehammer went into the kitchen and found a large tin basin which he filled to the brim with beer. This he carried out into the yard, and Rosy’s piercing squeals of delight were positively deafening. She dipped her trunk into the lovely brown liquid, sucked it up and then shot it into her mouth with a noise like a miniature waterfall. Very soon the basin was empty and Rosy, uttering small, self-satisfied belches to herself, wandered over to the shady side of the yard and lay down for a rest.
“Well, I must be on me way,” said the carter “Thanks very much for your ’ospitality.”
“Not at all,” said Mr. Pucklehammer.
“And you, sir,” said the carter, turning to Adrian, “I wishes you the very best of luck I ’ave a feeling with that little bundle of joy you’re going to need it.”
Mr Pucklehammer saw the carter safely out of the yard and came back into the house, where he found Adrian, his head in his hands, contemplating an empty beer mug gloomily.
“I simply can’t think straight,” said Adrian miserably, “I just can’t think what to do.”
“Have some more beer,” suggested Mr. Pucklehammer, whose philosophy in life was simple and direct. “Stop fretting yourself . . . we’ll think of something.”
“It’s all very well for you to keep soothing me,” said Adrian irritably, “but I’m the one that’s got the elephant. We don’t even know what she eats yet.”
“Buns,” said Mr. Pucklehammer, clinging to his original premise. “You mark my words, she’ll do well on buns.”
“I wonder if the carter was right?” said Adrian thoughtfully “If I could find a circus where she’d be happy and gave the owner the five hundred to look after her, I wonder if that would be legal?”
“I don’t know if it would be legal,” said Mr. Pucklehammer, pursing his lips thoughtfully, “but it’s one solution.”
“But where d’you find a circus?” said Adrian. “I haven’t seen one since I was seven or eight.”
“The seaside,” said Mr. Pucklehammer promptly. “There’s always circuses and fairs and such at the seaside.”
“But we’re fifty miles from the sea,” said Adrian. “How would I get her there?”
“Walk her,” said Mr. Pucklehammer, “the exercise will probably do her a power of good. One thing’s for sure, you can’t keep her here indefinitely. I don’t mind having her, mind, but an elephant isn’t the sort of thing you can keep in your yard without getting talk from the neighours. Nosey lot, round here.”
“Well, there’s nothing for it,” said Adrian. “I’ll have to tell Mrs. Dredge and the shop that my uncle’s dying and that I have to go away for a bit. I don’t think the shop will mind—I’m due for a holiday, anyway. How long do you think it will take me to get her down to the coast?”
“Rather depends,” said Mr. Pucklehammer.
“Depends on what?” asked Adrian. “How many miles a day an elephant can walk?”
“No, I wasn’t thinking about that,” said Mr. Pucklehammer, “I was thinking about the number of pubs you might have to pass on the way.”
“Yes,” Adrian groaned, “I’d forgotten about that.”
“Tell you what,” suggested Mr. Pucklehammer. “You know that little old pony trap I’ve got in the shed out there? Well, if we did that up and made a sort of harness thing, Rosy could pull it. You could put all your clothes and some beer and stuff in the back . . .”
“Not beer,” said Adrian hastily. “I’m not having any beer next to that creature.”
“Well, food then,” said Mr. Pucklehammer, “and then when you’re all loaded up, off you go, eh?”
In spite of his anxiety Adrian felt a faint stirring of enthusiasm in his heart. He had always craved for adventure, hadn’t he? Well, what could be more adventurous than setting off on a journey accompanied by an elephant? For the first time since receiving his uncle’s letter he began to feel that things were not quite as bad as he thought. He was almost excited at the prospect of walking Rosy down to the coast.
“If I can make the coast in three days,” he said thoughtfully, “it’ll take me another couple of days to find a circus, I should think. Well, let’s say ten days to a fortnight, to be on the safe side.”
“Yes,” agreed Mr Pucklehammer, “you should be able to do it in that time, if all goes well.”
“Right!” said Adrian, leaping to his feet and becoming once again (for a brief moment) the best swordsman outside France, “I’ll do it!”
“Good lad!” said Mr. Pucklehammer. “I’d come with you, only I can’t leave the yard. I bet you’ll have a rare old time. Now, let’s get organised. I’ll get the trap out and give it a wash down and a lick of paint and it’ll be all ready for you tomorrow.”
Adrian went and peered through the window. Rosy was lying peacefully asleep, her ears twitching occasionally and her stomach rumbling with a sound like distant thunder.
“She’ll need something to eat,” he said worriedly. “Just listen to the poor thing’s stomach.”
“Now stop fussing,” said Mr. Pucklehammer “I’ll attend to that.”
He and Adrian went out into the yard and, careful not to wake Rosy, pulled the somewhat dilapidated pony trap from inside the shed.
“There you are,” said Mr. Pucklehammer gazing at it admiringly. “With a lick of paint she’ll be as good as new. Now, you give her a wash down, boy, while I go and get some food for Rosy.”
Adrian went and fetched a couple of buckets of warm water and a scrubbing brush, and was soon hard at work washing the trap down, whistling softly to himself. He was so absorbed in his work that it gave him a shock when a warm, grey trunk smelling strongly of beer suddenly curled round his neck in an affectionate manner. He was not yet used to the fact that elephants, for all their bulk, can move when they want to with considerably less noise than a house mouse Rosy was standing behind him, staring down at him benignly. She blew a thoughtful blast of beer-laden breath into his ear and uttered a tiny squeak of greeting.
“Now look,” said Adrian sharply, unwinding her trunk from his neck, “you’ve got to stop messing about. You’ve been enough trouble already, heaven knows. You just go on back over there and sleep it off, there’s a good girl.”
By way of an answer, Rosy dipped her trunk into one of the buckets and noisily sucked up a good supply. Then, taking careful aim, she squirted the water over the sides of the pony trap. She refilled her trunk and repeated the process, while Adrian watched her in amazement.
“Well,” he said at last, “if you’re going to be helpful, that’s different.”
He soon found that if he indicated the area of the trap he wanted cleaned, Rosy would stand there and squirt water on it until further notice. All he had to do was keep replenishing the buckets. The force with which she could expel the water from her trunk greatly aided the cleaning process, and in next to no time the grime and cobwebs were washed away and the pony trap was beginning to look quite different. At this point Mr. Pucklehammer returned, carrying a bulging sack on his back.
“I couldn’t get any buns,” he said, obviously disappointed that he was not going to be able to prove his point, “but I managed to get some stale bread.”
They opened the sack and extracted two large brown loaves, Adrian held them out towards Rosy, not at all convinced that she would accept this somewhat worn largesse, but Rosy uttered a squeal of pleasure and engulfed both loaves, devouring them with a speed and enthusiasm that had to be seen to be believed.
“There you are,” said Adrian, “that’s the feeding problem solved.” He tipped the rest of the bread out of the sack and Rosy fell to like a glutton.
“My word,” said Mr. Pucklehammer admiringly, “you have made a difference to that trap.”
“It was mainly Rosy’s work,” said Adrian.