In a paroxysm of passion Selamlik Pasha called two Abyssinian slaves standing behind. “This brother of a toad to prison!” he said.
The Lost One’s eyes sought Dicky like a flash. Without a word, and as quick as the tick of a clock, Dicky tossed over his pistol to the Lost One, who caught it smoothly, turned it in his hand, and levelled it at the Abyssinians.
“No more of this damned nonsense, Pasha,” said Fielding suddenly. “He doesn’t put a high price on his life, and you do on yours. I’d be careful!”
“Steady, Trousers!” said Dicky in a soft voice, and smiled his girlish smile.
Selamlik Pasha stared for a moment in black anger, then stuttered forth: “Will you speak for a dog of a slave that his own country vomits out?”
“Your mother was a slave of Darfur, Pasha,” answered Fielding, in a low voice; “your father lost his life stealing slaves. Let’s have no airs and graces.”
Dicky’s eyes had been fixed on the Lost One, and his voice now said in its quaint treble: “Don’t get into a perspiration. He’s from where we get our bad manners, and he messes with us to-night, Pasha.”
The effect of these words was curious. Fielding’s face was a blank surprise, and his mouth opened to say no, but he caught Dicky’s look and the word was not uttered. The Pasha’s face showed curious incredulity; under the pallor of the Lost One’s a purplish flush crept, stayed a moment, then faded away, and left it paler than before.
“We’ve no more business, I think, Pasha,” said Fielding brusquely, and turned his donkey towards the river. The Pasha salaamed without a word, his Abyssinian slaves helped him on his great white donkey, and he trotted away towards the palace, the trousers flapping about his huge legs. The Lost One stood fingering the revolver. Presently he looked up at Dicky, and, standing still, held out the pistol.
“Better keep it,” said Dicky; “I’ll give you some peas for it to-night. Speak to the poor devil, Fielding,” he added quickly, in a low tone.