“Zulu nigger all run away now, masters?” queried the Indian. Whereat the roar redoubled—the point of the joke being that the speaker was a very black specimen of a Madrassi, some shades darker than the darkest of those he had defined as “Zulu nigger.”
Chapter Twenty Eight.
“Can the ‘Ethiopian’ Chance his Skin?”
“Well, we’ve managed to run our necks into a nice tight noose, Thornhill,” was Elvesdon’s first remark as he realised that they were virtually prisoners in the hands of insurrectionary savages, which meant that their position would grow more and more dangerous every day.
“The next thing is to get them out of it,” rejoined Thornhill fighting his pipe, and puffing away calmly as he walked.
“What about the ladies—will they be safe?”
“Oh yes. If they’d wanted them they’d have brought them along with us.”
“Sure?”