“I must have a look at you afterwards,” said the boy, as he picked out some forty or fifty of the dingy-looking rough crystals, gave them a rub over and over in the dry sand upon which he knelt, to dry them, and then thrust them—a good handful—into his pocket.
“Do for the collection,” he said to himself with a laugh. “Label: crystals of quartz, discovered in a goblin’s gizzard by Vandyke Emson, Esquire, F.A.S., Kopfontein, South Africa.”
“Wanterwater?”
“Yes, I do ‘wanterwater,’” cried Dyke, turning sharply on the Kaffir, who had returned. “I want to wash my hands. Look at ’em, Jack!”
“Narcy!” said the man, making a grimace.
“Hold hard, though; let’s have a drink first,” cried the boy. “It looks clean;” and raising the tin, he took a deep draught before using the vessel for a good wash, taking a handful of sand in the place of soap.
“Find the knife?” said Emson, coming back from the stable.
“No, but look here,” cried Dyke, pointing to the great piece of hoop-iron. “Fancy a bird swallowing that.”
“Iron is good for birds, I suppose,” said Emson quietly.—“Here, Jack, drag that bird right away off; remember, a good way. Mind, I don’t want the jackals too close to-night.”
The Kaffir nodded, seized the bird’s legs as if they were the shafts of a cart or handles of a wheelbarrow.