“Well, Jack,” said Ingleborough, “are the ponies eating their corn?”
“Yes, baas,” said the black gruffly; “eat um all fast.”
“Ah, I thought so,” said Ingleborough quietly, sniffing and blowing on the musty trash. “Do you feed your horses on stuff like this?”
He turned so sharply on the Kaffir that the man shrank as if from a blow; but his questioner smiled.
“Not your fault, I suppose?”
“Baas say, ‘Give ponies thaht,’” he replied apologetically.
“Of course, my lad,” said Ingleborough, drawing out a shilling and slipping it into the black’s hand.
“Now you get some of the best corn, and see that the horses eat it. You understand?”
“Yes, baas,” said the man, with a sharp click, as his eyes glistened and he showed his white teeth in a satisfied grin. “Soon my baas go away, give them good to eat.”
“Is your baas going away?”