Rais turned his back on his friend with an indignant growl. He was evidently indisposed for jesting.
In a few seconds, being indifferent to real mosquitoes, the Moor was again sound asleep. It was soon clear, however, that he was not indifferent to Ted’s artificial insect. Being unable now to reach his nose, the restless son of Erin thrust the feathery point of the reed into his friend’s ear. The result was that Rais Ali gave himself a sounding slap on the side of the head, to Ted’s inexpressible delight. When Rais indicated that he was “off” again, he received another touch, which resulted in a second slap and a savage growl, as the unfortunate man sat up and yawned.
“They seems wuss than ornar,” said Flaggan gravely.
“Wuss? I nebber know’d noting wusser,” replied Rais, with a look of sleepy exasperation. “Beats ebberyting. Been five-an’-twenty ’eer in de kontry, an’ nebber seed de like.”
“Seed the like!” echoed the seaman. “Did ye saw ’em when ye was aslape?”
“Feel um, then,” replied the other sulkily; “yoos too purtikler.”
“Suppose we goes an’ has a whiff?” suggested Flaggan, leaping to the ground. “It’s a fine night entirely, tho’ a dark ’un. Come, I’ll trate ye to a taste o’ me cavendish, which is better than growlin’ in yer hammock at the muskaities, poor things, as don’t know no better.”
Feeling that the advice was good, or perhaps tempted by the offer of a “taste” of his friend’s peculiarly good tobacco, the interpreter arose, calmly made a paper cigarette, while Flaggan loaded his “cutty,” and then accompanied him in a saunter down the road leading to the gate.
“Ally,” began the seaman, making a stopper of the end of his little finger—“by the way, you ain’t related, are you, to the famous Ally Babby as was capting of the forty thieves?”
“No, nuffin ob de sort,” replied Ali, shaking his head.