“Well, you black nigger, how long are you going to stand there? Why don’t you help a fellow out, instead of jabbering your confounded lingo, which I don’t understand a word of, though I’ve heerd nothin’ but it for nigh a year, and what’s more, I won’t understand it if I stay another; for it’s the devil’s own tongue itself, that it are.”
By this time I had recovered myself, and, dashing forward, tore away the remains of the ruins; then, as the other started up, I threw myself on his neck overcome with emotion.
“Now, I say, you nigger, what are you up to?” he exclaimed.
“Oh, Thompson. Dear old Jack. My old, old companion,” I cried, while actual tears rolled from my eyes, “don’t you know me—me, Dick Galbraith?”
“Dick Galbraith! and alive! By the Lord, is it possible; but how—how could I know you, dear Dick, my boy, with your face like a nigger’s, and rigged out in those queer togs. Oh, lor’! I’m glad of this indeed,” exclaimed the old fellow, laughing and crying at the same time as he hugged me and I hugged him, while both of us sobbed like very children for joy at once more looking into the face of a white man—and a friend.
Chapter Twenty.
We Go in Search of Mr Ferguson—Metilulu’s Reception of my Friends—Their Story.
No one but those who have lived nearly twelve months with a savage tribe can at all imagine the joy I experienced at once more looking upon the face of a white man and a fellow-countryman. It was some moments even before I could speak my delight, my voice being stifled by rising sobs, while Jack was no better than myself. When, however, we at last drew a few paces off to again look upon each other, I could not help bursting into a laugh as I beheld my companion and recalled his complimentary remarks respecting my personal appearance, for he was as eccentrically attired as myself.