“H’m! ’ee may ask that.”
A burst of noisy laughter just behind them caused the lost ones to turn abruptly, when they observed four tall young men of gentlemanly aspect sitting in a small military tent, and much amused apparently at their moist condition.
“Why, where did you two fellows come from?” asked one of the youths, issuing from the tent.
“From England and Scotland,” replied Jerry Goldboy promptly.
“From the sea, I should say,” returned the youth, “to judge from your wet garments.”
“Ay, we’ve been drookit,” said Sandy Black.
“Bring ’em in, Jack,” shouted one of the other youths in the tent.
“Come inside,” said he who was styled Jack, “and have a glass of whisky. There’s nothing like whisky to dry a wet skin, is there, Scotty?”
To this familiar appeal Sandy replied, “m–h’m,” which word, we may add for the information of foreigners, is the Scotch for “Yes.”
“Sit down there on the blankets,” said the hospitable Jack, “we haven’t got our arm-chairs or tables made yet. Allow me to introduce my two brothers, James and Robert Skyd; my own name is the less common one of John. This young man of six feet two, with no money and less brain, is not a brother—only a chum—named Frank Dobson. Come, fill up and drink, else you’ll catch a cold, or a South African fever, if there is such a thing. Whom shall I pledge?”