"Jis' missed my ole camp by about ten chain!" cheerfully observed Saunders, entering the arena with a billy in one hand and a small calico bag in the other. "I was makin' for her when when I heard you (fellows) talkin'. More the merrier, I s'pose." And he set about making a third little fire.
"Gittin' out with loadin', Helsmok?" asked Donovan, while we waited the boiling of the billies.
"Yoos gittin' dan mit der las' wool," replied the Dutchman. "I make der slow yourney; but, by yingo, I mus' save der horses."
"Ought to change that name of yours, Jan," remarked Thompson, with real sincerity. "It's an infernal name for children to hear."
"Literally so," commented Stevenson.
"Alter it to John Sulphur-Burnin'," suggested Baxter.
"How'd Jack Brimstone-Reek do?" asked Donovan.
"Give it the aristocratic touch," proposed Stevenson. "Sign yourself
Jean Fumée de l'Enfer."
"Why not the scientific turn?" I asked. "Make it Professor John OxySulphuret,
F.R.S.—Foreigner Rastling for Selebrity."
"My idear's Blue Blazes," put in Saunders bluntly.