“Oh, for iver, I should say, or as much of it as ye can conthrive to live.”
“You’re making fun of me,” said Ned, frowning. “But look here; you are not prisoners.”
“Prishoners? No. Isn’t the masther the rajah’s owen chief docthor, and Mr Braine his prime-minister, field-marshal, and commander-in-chief.”
“Then you people could go when you liked?”
“Oh no. Divil a bit. The old un’s so fond of us, he won’t let us shtir, and he always sends four dark gintlemen wid shpears if I think I’d like to go for a walk.”
“Then you are all prisoners?”
“Don’t I tell ye no, sor. They don’t call it by that name, but we can’t go away.”
“Oh, but this is abominable!” cried Ned, looking in the dry, humorous face before him.
“Ye’ll soon get used to it, sor. But just a frindly wurrud. I’d be civil, for they’ve an ugly way of handling things here, being savage-like. There isn’t a wan among ’em as knows the vartue of a bit o’ blackthorn, but they handle their shpears dangerously, and ivery man’s got his nasty ugly skewer in his belt—you know, his kris—and it’s out wid it, and ructions before ye know where ye are.”
“Yes; I saw that every man had his kris,” said Ned, thoughtfully. “But can you stay and look after the boat?”