Number Ten was grinning broadly, while Number Three advanced cautiously toward one of the creatures, making a low guttural noise, that could only be interpreted as peaceful and conciliatory—more like a feline purr it was than anything else.
“What are you doing?” cried Bulan. “Leave them alone. They have not offered to harm us.”
“They are like us,” replied Number Three. “They must be our own people. I am going with them.”
“And I,” said Number Ten.
“And I,” echoed Number Twelve. “At last we have found our own, let us all go with them and live with them, far away from the men who would beat us with great whips, and cut us with their sharp swords.”
“They are not human beings,” exclaimed Bulan. “We cannot live with them.”
“Neither are we human beings,” retorted Number Twelve. “Has not von Horn told us so many times?”
“If I am not now a human being,” replied Bulan, “I intend to be one, and so I shall act as a human being should act. I shall not go to live with savage beasts, nor shall you. Come with me as I tell you, or you shall again taste the bull whip.”
“We shall do as we please,” growled Number Ten, baring his fangs. “You are not our master. We have followed you as long as we intend to. We are tired of forever walking, walking, walking through the bushes that tear our flesh and hurt us. Go and be a human being if you think you can, but do not longer interfere with us or we shall kill you,” and he looked first at Number Three and then at Number Twelve for approval of his ultimatum.
Number Three nodded his grotesque and hideous head—he was so covered with long black hair that he more nearly resembled an ourang outang than a human being. Number Twelve looked doubtful.