When Raggy translated his majesty’s words Harry could not keep from laughing aloud.
The idea, he thought, of his leading one of those bloody-faced amazons through a mazy dance, or of his dancing in her majesty’s uniform to please a savage king!
“No,” he said, “he could not dance; but Raggy would.”
Raggy whispered something to his master, and the reply was—
“So you have, Raggy; I had quite forgotten. Go and fetch it.”
Raggy was back in less than a minute with a German concertina, which he had looted from Mahmoud, and which had been intended for King ’Ngaloo.
The effect of Harry’s playing on this instrument was magical. There was a half-frightened silence at first, succeeded by murmurs of delight.
“Lobo! Lobo!! Lobo!!!” cried the king, emphatically, and when Harry finished he smoothed the back of his hand with one finger, as if he had been a pet rat, and Harry could have sworn he saw tears in the poor man’s eyes.
“Now, Raggy,” cried Harry, striking into a hornpipe, “now for your breakdown.”
Raggy required no second bidding, and I am sure no stage nigger ever could have gone through one half the capers Raggy did, in that wonderful breakdown of his.