“Yes, sir, and a plaid kilt, just like a Scotchman.”
“What?”
“A plaid kilt, like a Scotchman, sir, and they calls it a say rong; and the big swell princes has it made of silk, and the common folks of cotton.”
“Is this gammon, Dick?”
“Not a bit on it, sir. They wears that crease stuck in it; and they carries spears—limbings they calls ’em—and they can throw ’em a wonderful way.”
“They poison the kris, don’t they, Dick?”
“No, sir, I don’t think they do,” said the sailor. “I asked one man out there if they didn’t; and he pulls his’n out of its sheath, and it was all dingy like, and as sharp as a razor, and he says in his barbarous lingo, as a man put into English for me, as his knife would kill a man without poison.”
“What sort of wild beasts are there, Dick?”
“Tigers, sir.”
“Honour bright, Dick?”