The black understood.
“Yes; Shanter, come along. Chop sugar-bag.”
“But, look here,” continued Norman, pointing in different directions. “Black fellow?”
“Black fellow?” cried Shanter, seizing his nulla-nulla—the short club he carried with a round hard knob at the end. “Black fellow?”
He dropped the dead game off his spear, dodged sharply about among the trees, and ended by hurling his weapon at a tree twenty yards away, in whose soft bark it stuck quivering, while the black rushed up, seized it, dragged it out, and then treating the trunk as an enemy, he attacked it, going through the pantomime of knocking it down, beating it on the head, jumping on the imaginary body, and then dragging it in triumph by the heels to where the boys stood laughing. Here he made believe to drop the legs of his dead enemy, and gave him a contemptuous kick. “No budgery. Shanter mumkull (kill) that black fellow.”
“You seem to have found a very cheerful companion, boys,” said a voice behind them, and Uncle Jack came up with a grim smile on his countenance. “Is that the way that fellow means to kill us?”
“No; that, was to show how he would kill all the black fellows who came near us.”
“Mumkull black fellow,” cried Shanter, shaking his club threateningly. “No come along.”
Seeing the group, the captain, who had been taking a look round, and been speaking to German, who was seated on the top of one of the loaded wagons keeping watch, came up to them.
“That black fellow still here?” he said sternly.