"Pig-iron? What about pig-iron, Herr Schwab?"
"Ach! meine Güte!" exclaimed Schwab, his broad face one startled note of interrogation, "who ze----who zen are you?"
He mopped his face with a red handkerchief, still holding his pocket-book open in the other hand.
"Don't you remember Tom Burnaby, on board the Peninsular, and your kind offer of any number of tons of pig-iron?"
"Goot heafens!"
"And I saw you at Kisumu, don't you know."
"Oh, I do know! yes; I do know indeed; and you vent after your oncle--vat you call vild-goose hunt. But, but--pardon me, Mr. Burnaby, you hafe taken my breass avay quite. You are like a--vat you call gorilla, Mr. Burnaby."
"Just what I thought myself," rejoined Tom with a laugh. "I'm getting acclimatized! But I haven't quite forgotten civilized ways, and I'm uncommonly glad to see you. It's I don't know how long since I spoke to a European, and if you'll come along to my hut I'll give you some Bass's ale or Devonshire cider (brewed in Mwonga, as we call this village), and anything else you like to order--prime Scotch beef, you know, and Southdown mutton; or Frankfort Bratwurst, eh? and we can have a comfortable talk and clear up a few inexplicables. But, first of all, my dear Herr Schwab, I must ask you to cancel that order for pins. The katikiro has never seen a pin in his life, I fancy."
"Oh, but indeed he has! I hafe showed him a packett. He vas fery delighted. He gafe me order for vun gross, spot-price: fipercentforcash."
"And how many pins in a packet, may I ask?"