“The dog,” I went on. “He is very unfriendly towards you. Why?”
“Who may say? The dogs of the white people are seldom friendly to us, and our dogs are seldom friendly to the whites. And this dog is very white.”
I got out a large native snuff tube I always carried, and gave him some.
“Come up to Isipanga before we start,” I said. “I have a present there for him who should serve these faithfully.”
“You are my father, Iqalaqala,” and with this formula of thanks, he once more saluted and went his way.
“What have you been talking about all this time?” said Edith Sewin. “By the way isn’t it extraordinary that Arlo won’t take to Ivondwe? Such a good boy as he is, too.”
“Perhaps he’s a thundering great scoundrel at bottom,” said Falkner, “and Arlo’s instinct gets below the surface.”
“Who’s a thundering great scoundrel at bottom, Falkner?” said Mrs Sewin’s voice in the doorway.
“Eh. Oh come now, aunt. You mustn’t use these slang terms you know. Look, you’re shocking Glanton like anything.”
“You’ll shock him more for an abominably rude boy who pokes fun at his elders,” laughed the old lady. “But come in now and have tea. What a lovely afternoon it is—but a trifle drowsy.”