Donald’s social instincts, like those of all true Americans, were very strong in him. Moreover, he had not had many opportunities of exercising his English-speaking tongue since he had left Brindisi. His intercourse with Papiu and Mihai had been in the deaf and dumb language, mostly. Laying aside his rifle, he brought out a roughly made stool, and sitting down, cap in hand, faced the girls.
“Ah, it does a fellow like me good to see your sweet faces, ladies. And how did you like my breakfast?”
Of course it was delicious. So was he, they thought.
“Well, now, miss, that’s awful kind of you. But I would have done better if I’d had some time and things, and less strictness.”
“Strictness? What does that mean?”
“Why, miss, I wasn’t allowed to build a fire until the sun was way up. Mr. Morton didn’t want no smoke about.”
“Your friend is a very cautious man.”
“My friend? Oh, I see, you mean Mr. Morton. Well, he’s a friend all right, and a very good one; but he’s really my boss, you know—my master, I guess you’d call it.”
“Oh! I thought you were comrades.”
“Well, bless your pretty eyes, miss, we’ve been pals and comrades many a year and in many a land; but as I get paid for my part of it, I guess it’s a job with me. With Mr. Morton, it’s sport and study. A mighty good sport he is, and a fine student, too.”