The Powder Monkey

“Hi-lo!”
The little boy raised his head with a sudden start.
“Hilli—hi—ho! What cheer?”
The little fellow started to his feet from where he had been sitting upon a sloping bank, and caught at the bars of the gate close by. He said nothing, but stared through the gloom of the autumn evening at the strange man, who now roared out:
“What cheer, I says! What cheer?”
The little fellow made an effort to speak, but only sighed at first, before stammering out:
“Please, sir, I don’t know what you mean.”
“You don’t?” growled the man, fiercely, as he clapped the palm of his left hand upon the front of his waistband, and the back of his right hand level with it behind; then kicking out his right leg behind, he made a kind of hop on his left, as if to shake himself down into his clothes, as he hoisted them up.
“You don’t?” he said again, as he stared at the little fellow. “What are you, then? A furrener?”
“No, sir,” said the little boy, shrinking; for the man now took a step forward and clapped a big, brown, tarry hand upon his shoulder.
“Then why can’t yer understand yer own lingo?”