“Kill a black fellow,” he said. “Mumkull. Go bong.”
“Oh, bother; I wish he wouldn’t muddle what a fellow means. I say, Tim, feel frightened?”
“Horribly,” replied Tim. “I say, I hope they will not come.”
“Perhaps they will not,” said Norman. “If they do, it may only mean to drive away some of the cattle.”
“Well, father don’t want his cattle driven away, does he?”
“Don’t talk so,” said Norman, who was standing with his face to a small square window, which he reached by standing on a case. “I say, come here, Tim.”
The boy went and stood by him.
“Look straight along the garden fence, and see if that isn’t something moving; there, by those bushes.”
Tim looked intently for a few moments, and shook his head.
“No,” he said; “it’s getting too dim. What’s that?”