"So did I, sir. I told him plainly enough; but he won't understand, and he's curried the lot."
"How tiresome!"
"I should like to curry his hide, Master Harry, but it's leather-coloured already. Never mind; there's some fresh potted meat."
"Bother potted meat! I'm sick of potted meat. Look here, next time I bring home any fresh fish you go into the kitchen and cook them yourself."
"What, me go and meddle there! Look here, Master Harry, I'll go with you fishing, and wade into that sticky red mud if you want me to; or I'll go with you shooting or collecting, and get my eyes scratched out in the jungle, and risk being clawed by tigers, or stung by snakes, or squeedged flat by an elephant's neat little foot; but I'm not going to interfere with old Ng's pots and pans. Why, he'd put some poison in my vittles."
"Nonsense!"
"He would, sir, sure as I stand here. He looks wonderful gentle and smiling, with that Chinese face of his; but I know he can bite."
"Poor old Ng; he's as harmless as his name. N. G.—Ng."
"Name? I don't call that a name, Master Harry. Fag end of a pig's grunt; that's about what that is."
"Here, I want my breakfast. Isn't father nearly dressed?"