The lad appealed to, a pale delicate-looking youth, clenched his fists and sprang forward to help his brother. But he stopped directly and began to laugh, as, after a short scuffle, Jack Rogers separated the combatants, and stood between them with the boot in dispute.
For a moment it seemed as if the two Zulu lads were about to make a combined attack, but there was something about the English lad which restrained them, and they stood chattering away in their native tongue, protesting against his interference, and each laying claim to the boot.
“Speak English,” cried Jack. “And now you two have got to shake hands like Englishmen, and make friends.”
“Want a boot! want a boot! want a boot!” the Zulu lads kept repeating.
“Well, you do as I tell you, and you shall each have a pair of boots.”
“Two boot? Two boot?” cried the boy who had lost his treasure.
“Yes; two boots,” said Jack. “You’ve got an old pair, haven’t you, Dick?”
“Yes; they can have my old ones,” was the reply. “Go and get them, Dinny.”
“And my old lace-ups too,” said Jack.
“Ugh!” ejaculated Dinny, spitting on the ground in token of disgust. “Ye’ll both repint being such friends with cannibal savages like them, young gentlemen. They’ll turn round on ye some day, and rend and ate ye both.”