"No, no."
"Well, then, what do you want?"
"Me and you, sah; you me fader and mudder, sah; all same for one; me stop, long stop."
"Oh, come! it's kind of you to say so, but I'm off to Mombasa to-morrow, and then home--over the big water, you understand. Don't want to adopt anyone yet, and can't afford a tiger."
The boy's face fell. Then he clasped his hands and poured out a rapid torrent of the queerest English, evidently an account of his career. Tom made out that he belonged to an ancient Bahima tribe, and was the son of a chief whose village had been raided by Arabs, all his people being killed or carried off as slaves. The boy himself, after two years of captivity, had escaped, through a series of lucky accidents, to British territory, and had since been more or less of an Ishmael, picking up a precarious living in doing odd jobs about the European bungalows. His last master had treated him with a brutality that recalled his years of captivity with the Arab slavers. Tom's short way with the bully had won the boy's unbounded admiration and gratitude. He had remained in hiding until he knew that the Portuguese had taken his departure, and then had felt that he could not do better than attach himself to his benefactor.
Such was his story, told disconnectedly, the English pieced out with occasional phrases in Swahili, the lingua franca of Eastern and Central Africa. Through all the narrative there was a convincing note of reality. The boy pleaded to be allowed to serve Tom for the rest of his life till, as he said, the "long night" came. He would not ask for wages, he could live on anything--nothing; and he flung himself down at Tom's feet, imploring him not to drive him away.
"Poor chap!" said Tom. "Sorry for you, but what can I do? My uncle wouldn't have me, or I might have made some use of you. And there's no chance now; he's away with the expedition to Ankori."
Mbutu's eyes opened to their fullest extent.
"Sah him uncle!" he cried.
He looked puzzled and anxious, and yet seemed to hesitate.