The black came running up with glistening face.
“Plenty mine come fast,” he said.
“Here,” cried Norman; “what for you come along steal flour?”
“Mine baal teal flour,” cried the black, indignantly.
“Aunt says you have, two or three times.”
“Baal teal flour,” cried the black again.
“There, aunt,” said Norman; “I told you he wouldn’t.”
“But I’m sure he did, my dear, for there were the marks of his black feet.”
“Baal teal flour,” cried Shanter again; and drawing himself up he was turning away, but Norman caught his arm.
“Look here, Shanter,” he said. “You brother. Baal go in storehouse.”