“I asked him as civilly as a man could speak, to come and help me unload the big wagon, and he shouldered his clothes-prop thing and marched off. Aren’t he expected to do something for his wittles?”
“Of course, Sam. Here, I’ll go and set him to work.”
Tim walked away to where the black was busy carrying wood to replenish the fire.
“Here, Shanter,” he said; “come and help me to carry some boxes.”
“Baal help boxes. Plenty mine come along wood.”
“There’s enough wood now.”
“What metancoly wood,” (much, a large number). “Baal come along boxes.”
“But you must come,” cried Tim.
Shanter seemed to think that he must not, and he took no more notice, but marched away, fetched another big armful of wood, and then took the big kettle to fill at the spring.
“I say, uncle,” cried Tim, “here’s insubordination in the camp.”