“I? No, not a word.”
“That’s a pity. You’ll have to learn a few words, so as to be able to talk to these chaps. But you’ll soon pick them up—some Indian, some Spanish, and some half-and-half. Wait a moment; I want to talk to this chap about—about your going.”
He began to speak to the man in a low voice, and then grew more and more eager, while the Indian began by smiling and looking amused, but, directly after, shook his head, and seemed to be refusing something which Cyril was asking. Then Perry saw the lad put his hand in his pocket and give the Indian a good two-bladed pocket-knife, whose keenness he demonstrated to the great interest of the Indian, who tried it on one of the heavy posts by the wharf, and then transferred it to his pocket with a smile of satisfaction, nodding his head now to everything Cyril said.
Their conversation lasted for some time, and Perry began to grow impatient after he had satisfied his scrutiny of the two Indians’ appearance, and wondered why they should disfigure themselves by painting horizontal lines from their noses across their cheeks.
“There,” cried Cyril, speaking rather excitedly, “it’s all right now. He says he’ll take great care of you, and wait upon you as if you were his father, and always find the best places for sleeping, and mind you don’t tumble down into any of the great gaps. But, I say, Perry, old chap, you do wish I was going, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
“Ah, well, I suppose I must give in and make the best of it, mustn’t I?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“And you can’t write to me and tell me how you are getting on. There are no post-offices up there.”
“No, I suppose not.”