Elephants are gregarious, and the average number in a herd is about
eight, although they frequently form bodies of fifty and even eighty in
one troop. Each herd consists of a very large proportion of females, and
they are constantly met without a single bull in their number. I have
seen some small herds formed exclusively of bulls, but this is very
rare. The bull is much larger than the female, and is generally more
savage. His habits frequently induce him to prefer solitude to a
gregarious life. He then becomes doubly vicious. He seldom strays many
miles from one locality, which he haunts for many years. He becomes what
is termed a 'rogue.' He then waylays the natives, and in fact becomes a
scourge to the neighbourhood, attacking the inoffensive without the
slightest provocation, carrying destruction into the natives'
paddy-fields, and perfectly regardless of night fires or the usual
precautions for scaring wild beasts.

The daring pluck of these 'rogues' is only equalled by their extreme
cunning. Endowed with that wonderful power of scent peculiar to
elephants, he travels in the day-time DOWN the wind; thus nothing can
follow upon his track without his knowledge. He winds his enemy as the
cautious hunter advances noiselessly upon his track, and he stands with
ears thrown forward, tail erect, trunk thrown high in the air, with its
distended tip pointed to the spot from which he winds the silent but
approaching danger. Perfectly motionless does he stand, like a statue in
ebony, the very essence of attention, every nerve of scent and hearing
stretched to its cracking point; not a muscle moves, not a sound of a
rustling branch against his rough sides; he is a mute figure of wild and
fierce eagerness. Meanwhile, the wary tracker stoops to the ground, and
with a practised eye pierces the tangled brushwood in search of his
colossal feet. Still farther and farther he silently creeps forward,
when suddenly a crash bursts through the jungle; the moment has arrived