“I beg pardon,” cried Mark, with mock politeness.
“Don’t!” cried Dean pettishly. “Now then, what was it you wanted to say?”
“Well, I was going to say, what do you think of it now we have got here?”
“Not much; and if it’s going to be all like this I shall soon be wishing we had stayed at home.”
“Same here. I say, what a lot of gammon they do write in books! I always thought Africa was quite a grand country; very hot—”
“Oh, it’s hot enough,” said Dean sharply. “Yes, it’s hot enough to make everyone seem lazy. Look at those black fellows there, fast asleep in the sun with their mouths open and the flies buzzing about. But I say, I don’t think much of these soldiers. What little under-sized fellows!”
“Haven’t done growing, perhaps,” said Dean.
“Oh, yes; they are old ’uns. But they do look like sunburnt boys. But I say, I expected something very different from this. What stuff people do write in books! I mean to say it’s too bad.”
“Yes; just over a month since we started from Southampton, and here we are dropped in this miserable place along with all our luggage and boxes, and been caged up in that hotel. Do you know what I felt when I first looked ashore?”
“No, but I know what I did—as if I should have liked to tell uncle that we had better stop aboard the steamer, for I was sure we had made a mistake and come to the wrong place.”