“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.

“Rosy?” asked Mr. Pucklehammer. “How d’you mean?”

“Well, she helped me. She squirted water over it . . . we had it clean in half the time.”

“Would you believe it!” said Mr. Pucklehammer. “I wonder if she knows any more tricks?”

“I don’t think we ought to start her off on tricks now,” said Adrian hastily. “For one thing, I’d better go down to the bank and fix up about the money, hadn’t I?”

“Right you are,” said Mr. Pucklehammer. “You leave Rosy and me here. We’ll be all right. I’ll paint the trap while you’re gone.”

When Adrian returned to the yard some hours later, he was greeted by the sound of Mr. Pucklehammer’s voice raised in song, accompanied by a periodical friendly squeal from Rosy. He went into the yard and there he found Rosy lying down, with Mr. Pucklehammer leaning against her shoulder, singing a serenade in her left ear. They were both bedaubed with splashes of paint, and an empty basin with traces of froth at the bottom and a pint tankard told Adrian that Mr. Pucklehammer and Rosy had cemented their friendship in no uncertain manner. Rather to his surprise—considering the condition of the two workers—the trap looked magnificent Mr. Pucklehammer had obviously allowed all his latent artistic genius to come to the fore. The body of the trap was a bright clean daffodil yellow, and the shafts a brave scarlet. The spokes of the wheels had been cunningly picked out in blue and gold, and the whole thing shone like a jewel.

“Hi, boy!” said Mr. Pucklehammer, straightening up unsteadily. “Just been having a little sing-song with Rosy . . . she likes a good song. What d’you think of the cart, eh?”

“It’s wonderful,” said Adrian enthusiastically. “You’ve done it beautifully.”

“Always thought I should’ve taken up art,” said Mr. Pucklehammer gloomily, but there’s not much call for it nowadays. Did you get the money?”

“Yes, I got it,” said Adrian. “There were lots of papers and things to sign . . . that’s why I was so long.”

“Well, if I were you,” said Mr. Pucklehammer, pulling out his watch and peering at it blearily, “I’d cut off home and break the news to that Dredge woman.”

“Yes, I suppose I’d better,” sighed Adrian. “In the meantime don’t go and give Rosy too much to drink, will you? You know what my uncle said in his letter.”

“A drop of beer,” said Mr. Pucklehammer severely, “never hurt no one.”

Adrian stepped up to his vast, slumbering protégée and patted her domed head.

“Good night, Rosy old girl,” he said.

Rosy opened one small, mischievous eye and peered at him. She looked almost as though she was smiling, Adrian reflected, as if she knew what the plans for the next day were and thoroughly approved of them. She uttered a tiny squeak, dosed her eyes and went back to sleep, while Adrian left the yard and trudged down the road towards Mrs. Dredge.

As he bad anticipated, Mrs. Dredge proved difficult about the whole thing. She was not at all satisfied with Adrian’s excuse of a dying uncle, and in her efforts to get to the bottom of this she muddied both 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.