“The truth is, sir,” said George, advancing with a miniature pitchfork or “tormentor” in his hand; “pardon my interrupting you, sir,—I did hear the screech, but as I couldn’t say exactly for certain, you know, that it was a Kafir, not havin’ seen one, I thought it best not to alarm you, sir, an’ so said nothing about it.”
“You looked as if you had seen one,” observed Frank Dobson, drawing down the corners of his mouth with his peculiar smile.
“Did I, sir!” said George, with a simple look; “very likely I did, for I’m timersome by nature an’ easily frightened.”
“You did not act with your wonted wisdom, George, in concealing this,” said Edwin Brook gravely.
“I’m afraid I didn’t sir,” returned George meekly.
“In future, be sure to let me know every symptom of danger you may discover, no matter how trifling,” said Brook.
“Yes, sir.”
“It was a very tremendous yell, wasn’t it, Dally?” asked John Skyd slily, as the waiter-cook was turning to resume his duties at the fire.
“Wery, sir.”
“And alarmed us all dreadfully, didn’t it?”