“Mine no pidney,” said Damper. “Mandowie myall. Bungarolo pidney?”
“Bung no pidney,” said that gentleman.
“Yes, you all pidney—more sugar, more jam, more damper,” cried Nic.
But the men only stared blankly; and growing impatient at last with the three ebony blacks, Nic left them to go back to Sam, but turned sharply, to see that they were all three watching him with their faces in a broad grin.
This exasperated him so that he made a rush back to look into the long dark shed, where he could see wool everywhere, but no traces of the blacks, who seemed to have disappeared.
“I’ll bring a whip,” he shouted, and then went away, laughing at the way the men were scared.
“Sam’s right,” he said: “they are like big black children. Here! Hi! Samson,” he shouted, and the old man came to meet him. “They don’t know.”
“Don’t know, sir? What makes you say that?”
Nic related his experience, and Sam grinned.
“And they laughed at you,” he said, showing his teeth. “Why was that? On’y because they enjoyed being as they thought too clever for you, Master Nic. They know, sir; but it’s no use—they won’t tell. They like you and me; but if they’d speak out to us as they do to one another, they’d say, ‘No mine tell Leather fellow, Mas Nic, plenty mine jam, damper. Leather fellow mumkull.’”