“For less than this,” Mowgli groaned to himself, “for less than this even last Rains I had pricked Mysa out of his wallow, and ridden him through the swamp on a rush halter.” He stretched a hand to break one of the feathery reeds, but drew it back with a sigh.

Mysa went on steadily chewing the cud, and the long grass ripped where the cow grazed. “I will not die HERE,” he said angrily. “Mysa, who is of one blood with Jacala and the pig, would see me. Let us go beyond the swamp and see what comes. Never have I run such a spring running — hot and cold together. Up, Mowgli!”

He could not resist the temptation of stealing across the reeds to Mysa and pricking him with the point of his knife. The great dripping bull broke out of his wallow