“Pity?” cried Rifle, staring at the black’s solemn face. “Pity that Tim saved your life.”
“Mine want mumkull big boomer.”
“Never mind: he’s dead,” cried Norman. “Now come along and let’s boil the billy, and make some damper and tea.”
“Mine don’t want big damper,” said Shanter, rubbing himself gently about the chest and ribs.
“What? Not want something to eat?”
“Baal, can’t eat,” replied the black. “Mine got sore all along. Dat boomer fellow squeezum.”
Norman laid his hand gently on the black’s side, wondering whether the poor fellow had a broken rib, when, with the most solemn of faces, Shanter uttered a loud squeak.
Norman snatched back his hand, but placed it directly after on the other side, when Shanter squeaked again more loudly; and at every touch, back or front, there was a loud cry, the black looking from one to the other in the most lugubrious way.
“Why, Shanter, you seem to be bad all over,” said Rifle.
“Yohi. Mine bad all along, plenty mine bad. Tam go bong.”