Of course, Schwartz had no grit in him: his type of man never has. He went pale, shook a bit, and leaned back against the table, and I noticed that the letter fell from his fingers to the floor. After a breathless question or two from the men as to what Jim meant by his extraordinary statement, they all rushed out. I turned a couple of summersaults, and was about to sing “Tell me, pretty maiden,” when I saw a sharp snout thrust inquiringly round the jamb of the door. It was the mongoose.
“Welcome, little stranger,” I said, but he didn’t seem to grasp idioms quickly, so I gave him the only chunk of Hindustani I possess.
“Jao! you soor-ka-butcha,” I shouted. One of my sailor friends says that is a polite way of asking after another gentleman’s health, but the mongoose looked up at me and wanted to know (in proper animalese) why I was calling him names.
“I didn’t,” I said.
“But you did,” he retorted.
“Well, I didn’t mean to. I thought that when the first mate said that to a lascar he meant ‘Wot oh, ’ow’s yer pore feet?’”
“You shouldn’t use words you don’t understand,” said Rikki, quite sharp.
“Keep your wool on; you’ll need it before the frost breaks. What’s this I hear about niggers outside? Are they after the fowls?”
“Dan says they want to kidnap Schwartz.”
“Look here, young fuzzy-wuzzy, not so free with your ‘Dan’ and ‘Schwartz.’ You haven’t joined the Gang until I pass you. Just try to remember that. Nice thing! You’ll be addressing me as ‘Poll’ next, I suppose? Now, if you want to make yourself useful, pick up that piece of paper on the carpet near the leg of the table, and carry it into your cage. Mind you don’t eat it. Miss Millicent may want it.”