ears, its long, snake-like, flexible trunk, its magnificent pair of
ivory tusks and its ridiculous, little eyes moved gravely to and fro--
up and down--in a wearied but restless manner.

Every now and then he would lift one of his massive legs and put it
down again, or sway his whole body from side to side, or throw his
trunk up in the air and then wave it round his head and over his back
in all directions.

But, in spite of his moody, wearied air, the elephant's tiny eyes
looked particularly wicked. And wicked they were, and a true index to
the mischief going on in his elephant mind.

He had no herd round him, no brother or sister elephant with whom he
could wave trunks, nod heads, or carry on a conversation in elephant
language; he was alone, and preferred to be alone, for his irritable
nature and morose disposition made it impossible for him to live with
others.

It was not entirely due to himself that he lived alone, for his
character was so bad, alas! that no herd would admit him into its
ranks, no drive would have anything to do with him; for he was
Rataplan, the Rogue, and he was feared, avoided and hated as much as
it is possible for the gentle-natured and good-tempered Indian
elephant to fear and hate anything.

There had been a time--long, long ago--when he had been one of a herd;
but his roguishness had developed early, and after much forbearance
and long-suffering the herd had turned him out; and from that time he
had been a solitary wanderer.