“Fight, my brave boy! fight, my youthful hero!”
“What kind of country is India?”
“The finest country in the world! Rivers, bigger than the Ouse. Hills, higher than anything near Spalding! Trees—you never saw such trees! Fruits—you never saw such fruits!”
“And the people—what kind of folk are they?”
“Pah! Kauloes—blacks—a set of rascals not worth regarding.”
“Kauloes!” said I; “blacks!”
“Yes,” said the recruiting sergeant; “and they call us lolloes, which, in their beastly gibberish, means red.”
“Lolloes!” said I; “reds!”
“Yes,” said the recruiting sergeant, “kauloes and lolloes; and all the lolloes have to do is to kick and cut down the kauloes, and take from them their rupees, which mean silver money. Why do you stare so?”
“Why,” said I, “this is the very language of Mr. Petulengro.”