“Doctor! Uncle!” cried Dean. “I believe they mean that the gun is buried there.”
“Gun! Gun! Gun!” cried Mak, and he bounded after his little companion, to take his place on the other side of the heap, and began to imitate his gestures, looking at the boys now, and shouting, “Gun! Gun! Gun!”
“Oh, do be quiet!” cried Mark angrily.
Then in a questioning tone he looked at the blacks, pointed to the heap, and repeated the word. Both began to dance now with delight, pointing down and making signs as if scraping a hole in the heap before them.
“Well,” said Dean, “if the gun’s there don’t keep on dancing like a pair of black marionettes. Dig it out;” and he imitated the blacks’ signs of scraping away the loose rubble.
Mak nodded his head eagerly, and shrank back, a movement imitated by Pig.
“No, no,” said Mark; “don’t go. Dig it out.”
The black looked at him enquiringly.
“Dig?” he said.
“Yes; both of you dig it out,” cried Dean.