The Spaniard looked at him curiously for a moment, as if not quite grasping his meaning.
“Por usted,” said Pen; and the man nodded and smiled, but shook his head and gave him the knife back.
“Hooroar! He won’t have it,” cried Punch.
Pen pressed it upon the man again, and Punch groaned; but the man rejected it, once more thrusting the knife back with both hands, and then laughingly pointed down to Pen’s boots.
“What does he mean by that, Punch?” cried Pen.
“Haw, haw, haw, haw!” laughed the boy. “He wants you to give him your boots.”
“Nonsense!”
“Here, give us hold of my knife. Hooroar! Sharper, I have got you again! But he sha’n’t have your boots; he shall have mine, and welcome.—Look here, my cock Spaniel,” continued the boy excitedly, as he pocketed his knife, and dropping himself on the ground he began to unfasten his boots. But the man shook his head and signed to him that they would not do, pointing again and again to Pen’s. “No, no; you can’t have them. These are better. You can have them and welcome.”
But there was a difference of opinion, the Spaniard persisting in his demand for the pair that had taken his fancy.
“Here, I didn’t think he was such a fool,” cried Punch. “These are the best;” and the boy thrust off his boots and held them out to the man, who still shook his head violently.