“My!” murmured Ebony to Hockins in an undertone, “if I couldn’t spoke better English dan dat I’d swaller my tongue!”
“Well—good-boy,” said the Interpreter, holding out his hand, which Mark grasped and shook smilingly, as he replied, “Thank you, I’m glad you think I’m a good-boy.”
“No, no—not that!” exclaimed the Interpreter, “good day, not good boy; good-night, good morning! We goes out, me an’ me frind. Him’s name Ravèlo.”
Again Ravèlo shook hands with Mark, despite the rattling chain, nodded pleasantly to him, after the English fashion, and took his departure with his tall friend.
“Well now, I do think,” remarked Hockins, when the door had closed behind them, “that Rav—Ravè-what’s-his-name might have took notice of me too as an old friend that helped to do him service.”
“Hm! he seemed to forgit me altogidder,” remarked the negro, pathetically. “Dere’s nuffin so bad as ingratitood—’cept lockjaw: das a little wuss.”
“What d’ee mean by lockjaw bein’ wuss?” demanded Hockins.
“W’y, don’t you see? Ingratitood don’t feel ‘thankee,’ w’ereas lockjaw not on’y don’t feel but don’t even say ‘thankee.’”
A sudden tumult outside the prison here interrupted them. Evidently a crowd approached. In a few minutes it halted before the door, which was flung open, and four prisoners were thrust in, followed by several strong guards and the execrations of the crowd. The door was smartly slammed in the faces of the yelling people, and the guards proceeded to chain the prisoners.
They were all young men, and Mark Breezy and his friends had no doubt, from their gentle expression and upright bearing, that they were not criminals but condemned Christians.