“Yes, that’s right; but you should ask me. But, look here, Tant, Jack shan’t come here. You understand?”
“Jack tief,” cried the woman angrily, and jumping up from her knees she ran into the lodge, and came back with an old wagon wheel spoke in her floury hands, flourished it about, and made some fierce blows.
“Dat for Jack,” she said, laughing, nodding, and then putting the stout cudgel back again, and returning to go on preparing the cake for breakfast, the kettle being already hanging in its place.
Dyke nodded and went away, and in an hour’s time he was seated at a meal at which there was hot bread and milk, fried bacon and eggs, and a glorious feeling of hope in his breast; for poor Emson, as he lay there, had eaten and drunk all that was given him, and was sleeping once more.
“Bother the old ostriches!” cried Dyke, as he looked down eagerly at the sick man. “We can soon get some more, or do something else. We shan’t starve. You’re mending fast, Joe, or you couldn’t have eaten like that; and if you get well, what does it matter about anything else? Only you might look at a fellow as if you knew him, and just say a few words.”
Emson made no sign; but his brother was in the best of spirits, and found himself whistling while he was feeding the ostriches, starting up, though, in alarm as a shadow fell upon the ground beside him.
But it was only Tanta Sal, who looked at him, smiling the while.
“Jack tief,” she said; “teal mealie.”
“Yes, I know,” cried Dyke, nodding.
“Jack tief,” said Tanta again. “Kill, hit stritch.”