"My word," he cried, slapping his legs in prodigious glee—"My word, him grow fat all right, my word!"
I gave him half a stick of tobacco. Never yet have I heard a blackfellow say "Thank you." "Hanson" received the tobacco in silence, and just as if he didn't know he was on the point of asking for it. Yet he may have been thinking of something else because, as I handed it to him, he said—
"White pfella him big one clevah. What him think, him do?"
I thought I had heard the same thing somewhere before.
"Yes," I coincided, and felt for the moment that it devolved upon me to say or do something towards proving myself worthy of a share in the flattering opinion. "Awfully clevah. I-er have known—"
I was about to speak of a scientific American's flying machine; but the bicycle was quite far enough in that direction.
"Have known-er eccentric bodies of them stand bolt upright on their heads. Say 'Nansen'—I mean 'Hanson'—" as the thought struck me—"did you ever have a try at standing on your head?"
But "Hanson" didn't savee. He giggled; repeated to himself vacantly a few times "Head? Head?" and finally put a poser to me.
"Which way?"