The major looked dubious. He liked to see every step in the process--all the working of the sum, so to speak.
"Fadl," he said, "just order the guide Munta to step this way."
The major's orderly, a Soudanese more than six feet high, stalked into the camp square.
"Now, Mbutu," called the major, "come here; I want you to stand out of sight in the tent there till I beckon you. By the way, Tom, that dago fellow had a name, I suppose. What is it?"
"I never heard it, Uncle. Mbutu has always called him 'old master' or 'dago man' to me. What was your master's name, Mbutu?"
"Black man call him debbil, sah."
"Never mind what the black man calls him, what do the Arabs call him? What did this guide of ours call him?"
"Call him señor, padrone; one time call him Castro, one time more call him Carvalho; him lot names too many."
"Bedad now," exclaimed the doctor, "it all comes back to me. Carvalho!--of course, 'tis the name of the Portuguese who gave us no end of trouble in Quid Calabar ten years ago. I disremimbered'm entirely; ten years makes a terrible difference in a man, to be sure; though when I saw Tom knock him down there was something in the creature's scowl that seemed familiar. Sure an' I ought to have remimbered his bumps. A desp'rate ruff'n of a fellow, Major. He came to me wance to be stitched up after getting mauled in a drunken brawl, an' I got to know a thing or two about'm. Ah! an' there was wan curious affair he was mixed up in that--
"I'm afraid the story must keep, Doctor; here's the guide."