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herself and Adrian up to such an extent that eventually neither of them really knew what the other was talking about. Finally admitting defeat, Mrs. Dredge gave up the attack and allowed Adrian (who now had a splitting headache) to go to bed.
    The following morning, his bag neatly packed, he made his way down to the yard. He had spent an uneasy night beset with dreams of enormous herds of intoxicated pachyderms crushing multi-coloured pony traps underfoot, and so was somewhat relieved, on entering the yard, to be greeted by a squeal of pleasure from Rosy, who shambled forward and curled an affectionate trunk round his neck in greeting. Rosy’s natural bonhomie was strangely endearing, thought Adrian. He was beginning to feel quite fond of his giant encumbrance.
    With the aid of Mr. Pucklehammer He packed the back of the trap with the things they thought he would need for the journey. There was an assortment of tinned and bottled food for Adrian, three sacks of stale bread for Rosy, blankets, a hatchet, a first-aid outfit full of mysterious and potent-looking potions that belonged to Mr. Pucklehammer, a coil of stout rope, a canvas tarpaulin which, as Mr. Pucklehammer pointed out, was big enough to cover both Adrian and Rosy should it rain, Rosy’s chains, in case it became necessary to shackle her, a firkin of ale, heavily disguised so that Rosy would not know it was there, and last but not least, Adrian’s banjo. This instrument he had purchased some months before, but his progress on it. had been slow, for he could only practise when Mrs. Dredge was down seeing Mr. Dredge at the cemetery. But Mr. Pucklehammer had thought it a splendid idea to take it with them. There was nothing, he explained to Adrian, like music when you were marching along. With music and beer, he insisted, you could get anywhere.
    At last they had the trap loaded up and, with a certain difficulty, managed to hitch it up to Rosy who was fascinated by this new game and most cooperative. Then, with Adrian holding the tip of her ear as a guide, they walked round and round the yard several times to get her used to the idea.
    “Well,” said Adrian at last, “I suppose we’d better be going. I can’t thank you enough for all your help, Mr. Pucklehammer.”
    “Don’t think anything of it, boy,” said Mr. Pucklehammer. “Only wish I was coming too. I bet you’ll have a wonderful time. Now don’t forget to write and let me know how you’re getting on, will you?”
    “I won’t,” said Adrian, “and thanks once again.”
    Mr. Pucklehammer patted Rosy affectionately on the flank and then flung open the gates of the yard. Rosy lumbered out into the road with Adrian guiding her, the trap rattling and tinkling behind them, and Mr. Pucklehammer stood and watched them out of sight.
    Although they took back streets wherever possible, they still bad to traverse a section of the city before they could strike out into the country, and it was in the city that Adrian added considerably to his knowledge of elephants, and the effect they had on life. For example, he soon discovered that horses were apt to have collective nervous breakdowns when suddenly confronted with one. It did not seem to matter whether they were pulling an omnibus or a hansom cab, the result, so far as Adrian could see, was identical. They would utter a piercing whinny, rear up on their hind legs and then gallop off down the road at full speed, with their terrified owners clinging desperately to the reins. Rosy was considerably mystified by this; having been used to sensible, plebeian circus horses whom she considered to be her friends, this lack of enthusiasm on the part of the city horses was puzzling and hurtful, to say the least.
    Another item of information that Adrian learnt about elephants–at the cost of a sovereign–was that they eat fruit and vegetables. They had rounded a corner and come face to face with an elderly man pushing a barrow piled high with market produce, at the