During the eighth summer of Ali's and Joie's connection with the great circus of Ringden Brothers, in the month of August, Ali was taken ill with the malarial fever. He was not sick enough to be in bed, nor did he give up his work, but he was sick enough to be very miserable most of the time.
Sahib Anderson urged him to take a few weeks off, but he would not hear of it. If Joie could not perform twice each day the circus would be ruined. The Sahib told him that some one else might possibly put Joie through his tricks, seeing he was so well-trained, but to this Ali would not listen.
"You see, Sahib, he loves me and he will do anything for me. Some one else might be harsh with him. They might strike Joie, and I could not stand that. No, I am all right. I will feel better to-morrow. Joie and I will show as usual."
Although Ali had been used to a great heat in his native country, yet the heat in the United States seemed to take hold of him severely.
It was an extremely hot summer, and Ali's performances with Joie came at the very hottest hours in the day, at twothirty in the afternoon, and at eight-thirty in the evening.
At these times the great tent seemed dense with hot, steamy, sticky air. It seemed to Ali sometimes as he came into the ring that he could not draw another breath. He thought he would have to throw up his hands and cry out. But he always went through his part all right, and as for Joie, he was the idol of all the children, and the wonder of the adults.
As soon as their part was over, Ali always headed for a cool green field if he could find one, and there he stayed until it was time to head for the freight-yards.
In the box-car where he slept with Joie it was often stifling.
As has been said, the boy might have slept in a berth in one of the sleepers, in fact. Sahib Anderson urged this course most vehemently, but Ali was stubborn, and not his usual tractable self.
"No, Sahib, I can't leave Joie. We have always been together, and we always will be."
"But you will get sick, boy," said the Sahib anxiously.
"Oh, no, Sahib, I am all right. I shall be better to-morrow."
But about the middle of August there came a day when Ali could not go into the tent for his and Joie's tricks. He was nearly heart-broken, and the Sahib comforted him as well as he could, and gave him an extra dose of quinine in the hope that it might break up his fever.
"I guess some one will have to take care of Joie," said the boy feebly that afternoon. "I must rest a little.
"Be sure. Sahib, and tell them to look out each day for the must. Joie doesn't seem to be quite right, himself."
The Sahib promised faithfully to see that Joie was all right, and Ali slept fitfully all the afternoon, but by night he had a high fever, and the Sahib insisted that he sleep with him that night in the regular sleeping-car, and for a wonder he consented.
But the attendant to whom Sahib Anderson gave the care of Joie was not on his job, for he neglected to examine the small hole in Joie's cheek-bone each day for signs of the "must," the most dreaded of all elephant ailments. So it happened that Joie, without any warning, went mad just after the first performance. He was a victim of the dreaded must.
At the time he had been placed in an old barn at the edge of the circus lot. As good luck would have it, the men had been quick enough to get a couple of ropes upon Joie before he became quite unmanageable.
But he was now thrashing about, bellowing and roaring, and threatening each minute to break away and rush across the circus lot, and possibly kill some one in his mad career.
Ali had been a little better that day and was sleeping in a small tent upon a cot where the Sahib had placed him. It was cool here and he could still hear the circus noises, which were music to his ears.
Presently a couple of men passed his tent. They were talking excitedly. Ali listened listlessly, but presently he caught words that brought him upright in bed with his eyes staring wildly.
"Joie has gone mad," said one of the men excitedly. "The must. They are going to shoot him. I am sorry for the boy. It will nearly kill him."
Ali sprang from the cot as though he had been made of steel springs.
His clothes were hanging upon a tent chair near by. Hastily he reached for something in his back trousers pocket, but it stuck in the pocket, and it seemed to him that he would never get it out. Finally it came out with a jerk, and he held in his trembling hand, a shiny twenty-two revolver. The Sahib had given it to him the year before, and it was one of his priceless possessions. But he had never before seen a time when he thought that he needed it.
So, dressed in nothing but his pajamas, and with the small revolver clutched in his hand, he ran wildly for the old barn where he knew that Joie was kept.
Each second he strained his ear for the dreaded sound. Would he be too late! He ran as he had never run before.
Ali strained every nerve in his brown body, and threw himself among the men panting and gasping.
"Stop, stop!" he cried covering the men with his revolver. "I will kill any one who shoots Joie."
"Here, here, Ali, give me that revolver," cried Sahib Anderson, advancing upon the boy.
Quick as a flash Ali turned upon him.
"Go back. Sahib, go back! I love you more than all the rest of the men in the world, but I love Joie more. I will shoot. Go back. Sahib, go back!" cried the lad almost beside himself with his grief.
The Sahib was a brave man. He had faced all sorts of wild animals in his day. He had several times stared death in the face and not flinched. But at the sight of Ali's flashing eyes, and his tense figure, the white man drew back. There was no knowing what the boy might do in his frenzy of love for Joie.
"All right, Ali," he said. "We will leave you with Joie, but I guess you don't know what a mad elephant is. Don't go within striking distance of him at present, or he will kill you."
"Joie won't kill me," said Ali confidently. "He knows me. He knows I love him."
"No, he doesn't," returned the Sahib. "He doesn't know anything just now. He will kill you just as quick as he would me. Look out, Ali."
Joie had advanced to the end of his rope, and made a vicious swipe at Ali with his trunk. It struck the boy a glancing blow upon the arm, and sent him reeling across the stable.
The Sahib sprang forward to snatch the revolver while Ali was still dazed, but Ali was up like a cat.
He still gripped the shining weapon and held it up defiantly at his beloved Sahib.
"If you take away my revolver you will shoot Joie. But I will shoot all of you first. Get back, Sahib! Get back, because I love you so."
Tears were streaming down Ali's brovm cheeks, so the Sahib decided to let him have his own way.
"All right, Ali, I will not try to take away your revolver again.
"You may go, men, and I will stay near by to help if Ali wants me."
"Thank you. Sahib. I shall be all right. You will be glad you trusted me. You will see."
Then Ali began a sort of soothing lowtoned talking to Joie. The white man thought he had never heard a human voice so caressing, so gentle, so soothing, so full of comfort.
"Oh, Joie, old pal, you are all right, Joie. Joie is a good boy. Nothing can get Joie. This is Ali, your friend, Joie. You know Ali, he will help you.
"Don't you remember Ali, Joie? He is your friend. Listen, Joie. The winds are sighing in the bamboo thicket, in the Malay land. Don't you remember, Joie? This is Ali, Joie, Ali, your friend."
For at least an hour Ali kept up this musical monotone. With his words and with soft phrases he sought to play upon the fevered imagination of the poor elephant, and finally it had its result. For the next time that Joie advanced to the end of his rope, instead of striking Ali, he put out his trunk inquisitively.
"Look out, Ali," cried the Sahib. "He is still mad. He may strike you any moment."
"No," said Ali decidedly. "He knows me. He will not strike me when he knows me. He is improving."
Then Joie went back to his old position, and Ali began all over again.
"Oh, Joie, old chap, this is Ali, your friend. Peace, Joie, peace.
"Nothing bad can get Joie. Ali will help Joie. Joie is all right. Peace, Joie, peace."
Over and over, again and again, Ali said the soothing words. The Sahib listened to him for four hours and then went away to supper.
"Perhaps he is calming down a bit, Ali," he said, before leaving, but you must be very careful. If he hurts you, I shall blame myself."
After supper the white man went back to the mad elephant and his beloved master, and found Ali still crooning softly to him.
To the Sahib it seemed that the voice of the boy was more like the sound of the winds and the waters than a human voice, and it was so soothing and restful that it made the Sahib sleepy to listen to it.
Until eleven that night Ali stayed by the side of Joie, and all the time he kept up his incessant low talking and crooning to the elephant, just as though he had been a sick baby.
Finally at eleven o'clock he went in beside Joie, and put his hand confidently upon his friend's trunk, and Joie squeaked with delight.
The tip of his trunk was moist, and he seemed perfectly normal.
"Sahib," cried Ali, "come here quick, Joie is well."
The white man approached Joie rather cautiously, but was obliged to admit that he was much improved.
"He is well," said Ali. "I know it. The old priest said if we could get the wild creatures to know we loved them, and would help them we could do anything with them. That was how I stopped the mouth of the great tiger. But, oh. Sahib, I am so tired, I—I"
But Ali did not finish the sentence, for he fell forward into the strong arms of his friend in a dead swoon. It was several minutes before they could bring him to, and he was a very sick boy for two days.
One morning he sat up in his berth, and said to the Sahib, "I am well, Sahib, I am well, and so is Joie. I want my clothes."
The white man felt the boy's forehead. The fever had entirely left him. He was still weak, but apparently all right.
"Fine, Ali," said the Sahib. "You shall have your clothes. Yes, I think Joie is all right. I saw him this morning."
Three days later both Joie and Ali were back in the ring doing their part in the performance.