He trembled in a terrible eagerness.
"You did, indeed," Polaris said gently. "Now tell me how you came here, who speak it also, and who are you?"
"Gor'bly me; Hi never 'oped to 'ear another Hinglish word in this life—me wot's rottin' 'ere into my grave!" the man said. "Gor'! Gor'!" He subsided into a tattered heap on the floor of the cell, covered his eyes with his shaking, grimy hands, and sobbed hysterically.
Restraining the dog, which would have sprung upon the weeping man, Polaris leaned forward and patted the poor fellow on the shoulder.
"Who are you, and how do you come to be in a Maeronican dungeon?" he asked.
"Jack Melton's me nyme, sir," the man said brokenly. "Hi'm from old Lunnon, Gor' bless 'er! Hi was cook on the ship Aldine, sir, from 'Ong-Kong to Durban, round the Cape. We got off our course, and the bloody devils sunk us—skewered us like a mutton shank, sir, with a streak of light. An' w'y in 'ell they did it, sir, is more than Hi can tell.
"Hi floated free on a cask—a biscuit cask, sir. Or mayhap it was a 'encoop; Hi've forgot, Hi was that flustered. Hup bobs a bloomin' big gold ball from the sea—it's Gord's truth. They took me aboard, an' they brought me ashore. They sets me to work in their mines; but Hi'd not do a stroke for them, sir. Hi near killed one of the bosses. Then they brought me here, sir. Oh, Gor'! Oh, Gor'-a-me!"
He broke out weeping afresh and rocked himself back and forth.
"How long have you been here?" questioned Polaris.
"That Hi can't tell, sir," Melton replied. "Hi used to keep count of the weeks an' months; but Hi lost it. Mayhap 'alf a year; mayhap a year."