"Oh, he is all right!" said Toto, cheerily. "It was he who showed us the way here; and he's outside now, talking to—that is—talking to himself, you know."
"Showed us the way?" repeated the hermit. "You have a companion, then? Why does he not come in, and let me thank him also for his kindness?"
"He?" said Toto, stammering. "He—oh—he—he doesn't like to be thanked."
"But at least he will come in!" urged the old man. "Do, pray, ask him! I am distressed to think of his staying outside. Is he a very shy boy?"
"He isn't a boy," said Toto. "He's—oh! what a muddle I'm making of it! He's bigger than a boy, sir, a great deal bigger. And—I hope you won't mind, but—he's black!"
"A negro! is it possible?" exclaimed the hermit. "My dear boy, I have no prejudice against the Ethiopian race. I must insist on his coming in. Stay! I will call him myself. I believe they are generally called either Cæsar or Pompey. Mr. Pomp—"
"Oh, stop!" cried Toto, in distress. "His name isn't Pompey, it's Bruin. And he wouldn't come in yet if I were to—"
"Cut him into inch pieces!" came rolling like muffled thunder through the doorway.
The old hermit started as if he had been shot. "Ah! what is that?" he cried. "Boy! boy! who—what is that speaking?"