“Dat not Injum,” he cried sharply; “dat fock.”
“Fox!” I said, recalling the little jackal-like creatures, of which I had seen one or two that had been shot by Morgan.
“Yes, dat fock. Um shout like dat to noder fock in um wood when um lose umself.”
“Yes, but that would be at night,” I said, wondering whether he was right.
“’Pose um lose umself in de day. Make um cry?”
“No,” I said, thoughtfully. “It is like the cry of the fox, Pomp, but I think it’s the Indians making it.”
“Why Injum cry out like fock when um can cry like Injum?”
“To deceive any one who hears them.”
“What deceive?” said Pomp.
“Cheat—trick.”