“I—I—can’t help it, father,” cried the boy, who was roaring with laughter.
“Tink Shanter funny?” cried the black; and he gave vent to the wallah-wallah noise again.
“Yes, you’re a rum beggar,” said Rifle, who looked upon him as if he were a big black child.
“Yes; Shanter rum beggar,” said the black, with a satisfied smile, as if pleased with the new title; but he turned round fiercely directly after, having in his way grasped the meaning of the words but incorrectly.
“No, no,” he said eagerly; “Shanter no rum beggar. No drunkum rum. Bah! ugh! Bad, bad, bad!”
He went through an excited pantomime expressive of horror and disgust, and shook his head furiously. “Shanter no rum beggar.”
“I meant funny,” said Rifle.
“Eh? Funny? Yes, lot o’ fun.”
“You make me laugh,” continued Rifle.
“Eh? make um laugh? No make black fellow laugh. Break um head dreffle, dreffle. No like black fellow.”