“Then be quiet. I want to see what he’s going to do.”
“Shure an’ it’s one of the masther’s owld boots I threw away wid me own hands this morning, because it hadn’t a bit more wear in it. An’ look at the dirty unclane monkey now.”
“He’ll hear you directly, Dinny, and I want to see what he’s going to do. Hold your tongue.”
“Shure an’ ye ask me so politely, Masther Jack, that it’s obliged to be silent I am.”
“Pa was quite right when he said you had got too long a tongue.”
“Who said so, Masther Jack?”
“Pa—papa!”
“Shure the masther said—and it’s meself heard him—that you was to lave your papa at home in owld England, and that when ye came into these savage parts of the wide world, it was to be father.”
“Well, father, then. Now hold your tongue. Just look at him, Dick.”
“It’s meself won’t spake again for an hour, and not then if they don’t ax me to,” said Dennis Riley, generally known as “Dinny,” and nothing more. And he, too, joined in watching the “unclane little savage,” as he called him, to wit, a handsome, well-grown Zulu lad, whose skin was of a rich brown, and who, like his companion, seemed to be a model of savage health and grace.