“Doesn’t look much like a beggar,” said Dean. “He’s had a fever, or something.”
“Well, I shouldn’t like to have a fever here,” said Mark. “I don’t mean to be ill. If I am it’s because I have come to a place where there’s nothing to do and nothing to see. Oh, I am disappointed! Here he comes back again. He must be a beggar, and he’s ashamed to ask us to give him something. No, it can’t be that. For foreign beggars are not ashamed to beg. I shall ask him if he has been ill.”
“No, don’t. He mightn’t like it,” said Dean.
“Then he will have to dislike it.”
“Don’t talk so loud,” whispered Dean, for the sailor passed close to them again, looking from one to the other wistfully.
“Poor beggar!” said Mark, as the man passed on. “I am sure he is a beggar, and he’s too stupid and drowsy to beg.”
“’Tisn’t that,” said Dean. “He wants a job.”
“Well, that means he wants money. Hola!”
The man stopped and looked round eagerly, and the boys could see that his lips were quivering as he made a movement with his hand as if in salute.
“Dinheiro,” continued Mark, slapping his pocket.