“Now,” cried Mark, patting him on the back; “make haste and get well. I don’t suppose I shall ever see you again. Be a good boy, and don’t go near lions. There’s a knife for you too. So toddle.”
“What nonsense!” cried Dean. “Poor little chap! Doesn’t he wish he could!”
The little fellow’s eyes twinkled as he took the knife which Mark held out to him and then good-naturedly opened all the blades and closed them again so that the receiver might fully understand the management of the wonderful instrument he had never seen before.
“Now, Mak, start them off, and I hope we shall never see them again,” continued the boy, “for somehow or other I quite like that little fellow. He’s been so patient all through his suffering, and never hardly winced, when the doctor must have hurt him no end. I don’t mean like him as one would another boy, but as one would a good dog that had been hurt and which we had nursed back again to getting all right—that is, I mean,” continued the boy confusedly—“Oh, bother! Here, I don’t quite know what I do mean. Ah, there they go. I say, Dean, did you ever see such a rum little chap in your life, with his gold ornaments and ostrich feather? Shouldn’t you like to take him back with us to the manor?”
“Yes—no—I don’t know,” said Dean. “Here, come on. They have all gone now, and there’s Dan waving his hand for us to come to breakfast.”
“That’s right,” said Mark thoughtfully. “We understand; you needn’t shout. I say, Dean, we might as well have brought the old gong out of the hall. It would have done for dinner-bell if we had hung it outside the waggon, and been splendid to have scared the lions away.”