“Corbon budgery. All good. Get away and no work.”
“Work?” cried Rifle. “Why, you never did any work in your life.”
“Baal work. Mine go mumkull boomer plenty hunt, find sugar-bag. Yah!”
He uttered another wild shout, which resulted in his having to trot off after the packhorse, which took to its heels, rattling the camping equipage terribly, while the boys restrained their rather wild but well-bred steeds.
“Old Tam’s so excited that he don’t know what to do,” cried Tim.
“Yes. Isn’t he just like a big boy getting his first holidays.”
“Wonder how old he is,” said Rifle.
“I don’t know. Anyway between twenty and a hundred. He’ll always be just like a child as long as he lives,” said Norman. “He always puts me in mind of what Tim was six or seven years ago when he first came to us.”
“Well, I wasn’t black anyhow,” said Tim.
“No, but you had just such a temper; got in a passion, turned sulky, went and hid yourself, and forgot all about it in half an hour.”