“I do wish you would talk sense,” cried Rob, in a low, earnest whisper. “You know I’ve no one to go and talk to about anything when I want advice.”
“No, I don’t,” said Shaddy gruffly. “There’s Muster Brazier.”
“Just as if he would want to be bothered when his head’s full of his specimens and he’s thinking about nothing else but classifying and numbering and labelling! He’d laugh, and call it a silly trifle, and tell us to shake hands.”
“Good advice, too, my lad, but not now. Wait a bit.”
“I can’t wait, knowing I’ve upset poor old Joe like that. I want to be friends at once.”
“That’s good talk, my lad, only it won’t work at present.”
“Ah, now you’re talking sensibly and like a friend,” said Rob. “But why will it not do now?”
“’Cause Mr Jovanni ain’t English. He’s nursing that all up, and it isn’t his natur’ to shake hands yet. Give the fire time to burn out, and then try him, my lad; he’ll be a different sort then to deal with.”
Rob was silent for a few minutes.
“That’s good advice, Mr Rob, sir, and so I tell you; but I mustn’t stop here talking. It’ll soon be sundown, and then, you know, it’s dark directly, and ’fore then we must be landed and the lads making a good fire. I wish Mr Brazier would come and give more orders about our halting-place to-night.”