“Now, mein vrient,” said the old man, “you gan oondershtand goot Englisch, if you gannot shpeak him zo vel ash me, zo you listen. I am a creat magistrate, und know a lot. I am going to dalk to dot tog, und you are to hear.—Now, my goot tog, you are better as effer you vas, heh?”
Duke barked.
“Das ist goot. Now you are going to Kopfontein.”
The dog barked loudly.
“Das ist good, too. Now I dell you dis: if Kaffir Jack—you know Kaffir Jack—dot is him.”
He clapped his hand on the black’s shoulder, and the dog barked excitedly.
“Yaas, you know him; und I dell you dot if he does not work, you are to bide him.”
The dog’s hair rose up, and Jack made a movement to run, but the big fat hand held him fast.
“Und then, mein goot tog, if you do dot, he vill be ferry pad, und perhaps go mad. I mean, if you bide him, hey?”
The dog barked furiously, and Jack’s blackish face turned of a horrible dirty grey as he stood shivering, having pretty well understood every word.