“I don’t know. My German has grown rusty out here. Dicker alte Mann, perhaps. Why?”
“Because I mean to call him that. He always called me booby.”
“No, bube:—boy,” said Emson, smiling.
They stood watching the wagon creeping nearer and nearer for a minute or two, Dyke longing to run to meet the visitors; but he suddenly recalled the orderly look at Morgenstern’s, and rushed back into the house to try to make their rough board a little more presentable; and he was still in the midst of this task, when, with a good deal of shouting from the Kaffir servants, and sundry loud cracks of the great whip, the wagon, creaking and groaning, stopped at the fence in front of the house, and the old German shouted:
“Ach! mein goot vrient Emzon, how you vas to-day? Vere is der bube?”
“Dicker alte Mann!” said Dyke between his teeth, and hurriedly brushing away some crumbs, and throwing a skin over the chest in which various odds and ends were kept, he listened to the big bluff voice outside as Morgenstern descended.
“It is goot to shack hant mit an Englander. Bood you look tin, mein vrient. You haf been down mit dem vever?”
“Yes, I’ve been very ill.”
“That is nod goot. Bood you ged besser now. Ach, here is der poy! Ach! mein goot liddle bube, ant how you vas?”
Dyke’s hands were seized, and to his horror the visitor hugged him to his broad chest, and kissed him loudly on each cheek.