“Bolo he grunted. For a heathen he’s spry, but it was his lazy time, and for another thing he was in the middle of a long-winded story, which he was bound to finish, being a born talker, and very strong ag’inst being interrupted.
“‘Chet-chet-chet-chee!’ said the honey-bird, jumping from one branch to another all in a quiver of impatience.
“‘Come on,’ says I, ‘let’s see what sort of a nest he’s got.’
“‘That bird is a mischief bird,’ said Bolo; ‘he will lead us to a snake or a tiger. Eweh! to the black tiger.’
“‘How?’ says I.
“‘Why,’ says he, ‘if he were a good bird he would sit away over there on that thorn bush and wait till we have finished our talk. This bird is too anxious.’
“Just then that bird flew away, off to the thorn tree, and there he sat dumb.
“‘By Jimminy,’ says I, ‘that’s funny.’
“Bolo he took a pinch of snuff, and he drove on with his story, with his ‘congella wetu,’ and his ‘kè-kè-lo-ko-kè,’ jes’ ’s if nothing had happened, while I sat with my eyes fixed on that there bird.
“Well, the longest river reaches the sea some time, and at last Bolo finished that yarn, and what it was about I couldn’t tell you, sonny. ‘Now,’ says I, ‘let us investigate this matter,’ and hang me ef at that precise moment of the ending of that yarn, the bird didn’t come back, all agog with his news.